.UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


The  Substance  of  His  House 


Her  eyes  ran  over  him  as  if  appraising  his  value. 
FRONTISPIECE.     See  Page  351. 


The  Substance  of 


His  House 


BY 

RUTH   HOLT   BOUGICAULT 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

M.   LEONE  BRACKER 


'Many  waters  cannot  quench  love  nor  can  the  floods  drown 
it:  if  a  man  would  give  all  the  substance  of  his  house  for 
love,  it  would  utterly  be  contemned" 

The  Song  of  Songs 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1914 

UMV,  i)F  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


Copyright, 
BT  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPAMT. 


All  rights  reserved 

Published,  February,  1914 

Reprinted,  February,  1914,  (twice) 

Reprinted,  February,  1914,  (three  times) 


^9  rf  nil  If 
8.  J.  PARKHILL  &  Co.,  BOSTON,  U.S.A. 


To  MARGARET  MAYO 

friend  oj  my  heart,  out  of  the  years  behind  us 
I've  plucked  and  weaved  this  chain  of  leaves 
for  you. 

Knowing  its  little  worth,  except  to  bind  us 
With  one  tie  more  which  time  cannot  undo. 

Yowrj  was  the  gift;  and  yours  the  faith  unbroken 
When  fate  assailed  and  life  but  mocked  my  tears, 

Take  now  my  thanks,  and  though  so  slight  the  token 
NLy  love  that  grows  still  greater  through  the  years. 


21260B3 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Her  eyes  ran  over  him  as  if  apprais- 
ing his  value Frontispiece 

She  gave  him  kiss  for  kiss,  again  and 
yet  again PAGE       61 

"You   know"  he   answered  signifi- 
cantly       72 

Long  they  sat  in  front  of  the  fire  on 

the  old  wooden  settle     ....  374 


Book  I 


CHAPTER  I 

"The  stars  some  cadence  use, 
Forthright  the  river  flows, 
In  order  fall  the  dews, 
Love  blows  as  the  wind  blows: 
Blows!  .  .  .  and  what  reckoning  shows 
The  courses  of  his  chart? 
A  spirit  that  comes  and  goes, 
Love  blows  into  the  heart" 

W.  E.  HENLEY. 

THE  long  drawing-room  of  Sir  Arthur 
Stanhope 's  town  house  in  Whitehall  Gar- 
dens had  an  air  of  waiting,  of  expect- 
ancy. Its  low,  French  windows  stood  open  to  the 
spring  night,  and  the  wind  just  barely  stirred  the 
folds  of  the  heavy  curtains.  It  was  a  perfect 
room  of  its  kind,  its  time-softened  tints  of  old- 
rose  and  gray  repeated  over  and  over  in  the  walls, 
the  carpet,  the  furnishings.  Graceful  Louis 
Quinze  chairs  and  sofas  were  sprinkled  about  at 
judicious  intervals,  their  shadows  faintly  mir- 
rored in  the  polished  floor.  Against  the  gray 
background  hung  a  few  choice  pictures  in  mas- 


4  THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

sive  gold  frames,  and  here  and  there  an  exquisite 
bit  of  statuary  or  a  vase  was  placed,  with  an  ef- 
fect of  studied  appreciation.  The  whole  air  of 
the  place  was  one  of  assured  taste,  correct  for- 
mality, cold,  dignified,  even  stately.  Through 
the  open  doors  leading  to  the  hall,  the  stairway 
was  visible,  a  fine  old  stairway  of  oak,  with  a 
balustrade  of  the  Jacobean  period. 

The  door-bell  rang,  and  the  butler  ushered  into 
the  drawing-room  a  broad-shouldered,  brown- 
faced  young  man,  of  about  thirty-five.  Hie.  face 
was  of  the  clean-cut  type,  with  long,  thin  features, 
and  a  mouth  whose  stem  expression  illy  con- 
cealed its  humorous  twist.  Humor  lurked,  too, 
about  the  eyes,  which  were  steady  and  gray,  and 
which  would  have  been  too  sharp  but  that  an  ex- 
pression of  kindliness  softened  their  keenness. 
Altogether  he  had  the  look  of  one  whom  no  man 
(or  woman  either)  could  deceive,  of  one  who  could 
look  through  the  deeds  of  people  to  the  motives 
behind  them,  and  having  analyzed  them,  bear  the 
revelation,  whatever  it  was,  with  a  twinkle  of  tol- 
erance and  a  large  indifference.  His  superficial 
air  was  slow  and  lazy,  but  it  barely  covered  a 
nervous  energy  which  was  felt  rather  than  seen 
in  his  personality. 

"Her  Ladyship  is  at  dinner,  now,  sir,  and  they 
have  guests — the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Norther- 
land,  sir.  They  have  nearly  finished.  What 
name,  sir?" 

"Baldwin,"    answered    the    tall   young   man. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE  5 

"Just  tell  her  Ben  Baldwin,   her  old  friend." 

The  butler  disappeared  with  a  somewhat  doubt- 
ful look  as  soon  as  the  guest's  back  was  turned. 
Evidently  an  American,  he  thought,  by  his  accent 
and  the  cut  of  his  clothes,  and  his  general  air  of 
unreserve.  Strange  creatures,  Americans!  Her 
Ladyship  was  one.  One  never  knew  what  they 
would  do  next;  but  it  would  be  something  unex- 
pected, one  could  be  sure  of  that. 

Left  to  himself,  Mr.  Ben  Baldwin  sauntered 
up  and  down  the  room  once  or  twice.  One  thing 
after  another  which  spoke  of  wealth,  rank,  taste, 
an  old  and  established  nobility,  a  family  heritage, 
caught  his  attention.  His  first  round  of  the  room 
brought  him  back  to  his  starting-point  with  a 
rather  puzzled  expression. 

"Little  Mary,"  he  mused,  "wild-hearted  little 
Mary!  How  does  she  fit  into  it  all?" 

Then  the  pictures  came  in  for  their  share  of  his 
attention.  He  was  somewhat  of  a  connoisseur  in 
pictures.  He  stood  for  some  moments  in  front  of 
one,  a  long  panel,  beautifully  painted.  It  was 
rather  unusual  in  composition,  and  represented  a 
woman  standing  upon  a  threshold.  She  held  the 
opened  door  in  one  outstretched  hand,  and  the 
doorway  made  a  frame  for  her  buoyant  figure, 
which  seemed  to  be  just  arrested  in  its  quick  step 
toward  him.  The  pose  was  wonderfully  caught, 
but  what  held  Ben  Baldwin's  gaze  was  the  face  of 
the  woman.  Under  masses  of  shadowy  hair — soft 
light  brown  hair,  with  warm  lights  in  it — a  pair 


6  THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

of  very  beautiful  eyes  looked  out.  They  gazed 
straight  at  him,  confident,  challenging  eyes,  good, 
gay,  and  blue ;  and  Ben  Baldwin  said  aloud,  as  he 
smiled  at  them:  "  That's  she— that's  she."  He 
stood  off  a  little  way  and  regarded  the  picture. 
'  *  She  was  always  looking  for  something  wonder- 
ful to  happen  just  around  the  corner.  Wonder 
if  she's  found  itr— over  the  threshold  there — 
here?" 

Then  he  went  back  to  his  chair  and  thoughtfully 
bit  off  the  end  of  a  cigar.  Recollecting  where 
he  was  just  as  he  was  about  to  light  it,  he 
put  it  back  in  his  pocket  and  went  on  with  his 
thoughts. 

"Let's  see — how  long  is  it?  Must  be  eight  or 
nine  years — Lord!  Wonder  if  she's  changed 
much — wonder  if  she's  happy?  Jolly  fine  place," 
he  looked  about  him  appreciatively,  "but  some- 
how doesn't  seem  like  Mary.  Wonder  if  she  is 
ever  homesick?"  He  began  to  hum  "Mid  pleas- 
ures and  palaces"  and  stopped  short.  The 
august  butler  was  re-entering  with  coffee. 

"The  ladies  are  just  coming,  sir,"  he  said,  as 
he  put  the  tray  down. 

Then  came  the  sound  of  voices  and  laughter. 
Ben  Baldwin  stood  up  and  found  himself  eagerly 
trying  to  distinguish  which  belonged  to  his  host- 
ess; not  that  deep  one,  surely — no,  that  was  an 
older  woman's;  nor  that  light  tone,  that  couldn't 
be  Mary — ah,  there  it  was,  warm  and  rich,  the 
voice  he  remembered. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE  7 

' '  Wait  for  me  here,  you  two, ' '  it  said.  ' '  I  must 
find  my  old  friend,  and  then  we'll  join  you." 
And  a  second  later  the  lady  of  the  picture  stood 
in  the  doorway,  with  gracious,  outstretched  hands, 
and  impulsive  speech. 

"Ben  Baldwin!  Dear  old  Ben!  How  glad  I 
am  to  see  you.  Why,  how  did  you  get  here  so 
soon?  I  didn't  expect  you  until  Saturday.  Oh, 
you  came  a  boat  earlier  than  you  planned,  of 
course ! ' ' 

"After  I  got  your  letter,  Lady  May." 

"Lady  May!  Hark  to  that!  Don't  you  dare 
call  me  such  a  thing,  Ben!" 

"Isn't  it  right?"  he  asked  somewhat  anx- 
iously. 

She  laughed  merrily.  "Not  a  bit  like  it!  I 
am  just  May  to  you,  I  hope,  or  Mary.  Which  do 
you  like  better  ?  I  'm  both. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  he  answered,  smiling,  and 
scrutinizing  her  rather  keenly. 

She  put  both  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  with 
frank  friendliness.  "You  dear  old  thing!  Of 
course  you  don't.  Why,  how  long  is  it  since — no, 
don't  tell  me — it  makes  me  feel  old.  How's  Jes- 
sie?" 

"Sis  is  awfully  well  and  happy.  Got  two 
splendid  boys,  you  know.  Sent  you  all  kinds  of 
love." 

"Bless  her.  Oh,  Ben,  how  nice  it  is  to  have 
you  here.  You're  just  the  same  as  ever.  How  it 
puts  the  clock  back,  seeing  you  I  It  might  almost 


8  THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

seem  as  if  you  had  come  to  take  Jessie  and  me  to 
the  theater.  Let's  play  it's  so!  We'll  take  the 
elevated. ' ' 

"Or  the  surface  car." 

"The  tram,  you  mean?"  she  laughed  at  him, 
"and  we  will  go  in  our  best  bibs  and  tuckers,  re- 
gardless of  the  fact  that  they  are  only  suited  to 
carriages.  Not  having  carriages,  what  care  wet 
What  fun  it  all  was!" 

"You're  homesick,"  he  suggested  gently. 

"No,  only  sentimental,"  she  laughed  at  herself, 
and  Ben  Baldwin  wondered  why  it  made  some- 
thing catch  in  his  throat.  "But  good  gracious, 
I'm  forgetting  the  Duchess  and  Lady  Kitty. 
Come  and  meet  them.  They  are  in  the  morning- 
room.  Turnbull,  please  bring  coffee  in  there. 
We  are  a  small  party  to-night." 

"Thank  goodness!"  said  Ben  Baldwin.  "I 
know  I  shall  like  the  Duchess ;  Sis  reads  me  bits  of 
your  letters,  you  see." 

"I'm  very  fond  of  her;  she  and  the  Duke  are 
my  oldest  and  best  friends  in  England.  They 
knew  my  people.  I  never  did,  you  know. ' ' 

"  I  know,  poor  child.  You  were  a  lonely  little 
kid." 

"Until  I  found  Jess  at  school,  and  she  took  me 
home  with  her,  one  vacation.  It's  a  wonder 
Auntie  let  me  go !  How  kind  you  and  your  peo- 
ple all  were  to  me!  Here  we  are.  Duchess,  let 
me  introduce  my  old  friend,  Ben  Baldwin.  He's 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE  9 

almost  my  brother.  His  sister  was  my  dearest 
friend  at  school." 

"I  know,"  said  the  Duchess,  "I  have  often 
heard  you  speak  of  them  both."  She  graciously 
extended  her  hand  which  Ben  shook  heartily. 

"And  Lady  Kitty  Carew,"  continued  his  host- 
ess. 

' '  How-d  '-you-do  ? ' '  said  Lady  Kitty,  with  a  lazy 
smile.  She  was  small  and  fair,  and  held  a  ciga- 
rette between  her  fingers.  "It  must  be  awfully 
jolly  for  you  to  meet  again.  Is  it  long  since  you 
have  seen  each  other?" 

Ben  smiled.  "Lady  May  wouldn't  let  me  say 
how  long,"  he  answered., 

"Listen  to  him — 'Lady  May,'  :  mocked  his 
hostess. 

"Well,  why  not?"  asked  Lady  Kitty,  inventing 
a  white  lie  to  set  the  stranger  at  his  ease.  "We 
all  call  you  so;  it  isn't  correct,  of  course,  but  it 
suits  you." 

"Why?"  said  Ben,  mystified. 

"Oh— well— "  Lady  Kitty  hesitated.  "She's 
too  dignified  to  be  just  'May,'  and  too  frank  and 
sweet  to  be  such  a  distant  person  as  'Lady  Stan- 
hope' sounds.  So  we  compromise.  Quite  wrong 
of  us — but  we  do.  Besides,  being  an  American, 
she  can  break  rules,  not  being — er — quite — " 

"Not  being  quite  one  of  you,"  her  hostess 
finished  quietly. 

"My  dear— " 


10         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


. . 


'It's  quite  true,"  continued  Lady  Stanhope, 
"I'm  not.  But  you  like  me  all  the  better  for  it, 
don't  you."  She  smiled  winningly,  not  asking  it 
as  a  question,  but  asserting  it  as  a  fact. 

"Huh!"  said  the  old  Duchess,  with  blunt  scorn, 
"why  waste  time  caring  whether  people  like  you 
or  not?  If  it's  a  man — the  man — make  him!  If 
it's  a  woman — well,  you  are  safer  if  she  dislikes 
you!" 

"Nonsense!"  said  Lady  Stanhope. 

"It's  true,  my  dear.  Then  you  don't  tell  her 
things,  and  then  she  doesn  't  repeat  'em.  Besides, 
the  dislike  of  some  people  is  a  compliment." 

"Well,  I  can't  bear  any  one  not  to  like  me — not 
even  a  chambermaid,"  laughed  Lady  Stanhope. 

"No  one  does  dislike  you,"  said  the  old  Duchess 
dryly.  ' '  'Twould  be  better  for  you  if  they  did ! " 

Lady  Kitty  Carew  looked  up  swiftly.  '  *  I  scent 
a  scandal,"  she  said  mischievously.  "May,  what 
does  she  mean?  Have  you  any  idea,  Mr.  Bald- 
win?" 

"No,"  answered  Ben  sturdily.  "And  I 
wouldn't  believe  it,  if  I  had."  He  saw  the  quick 
look  which  his  hostess  shot  at  Lady  Kitty,  and 
wondered  a  little.  The  Duchess  asked  if  this  was 
his  first  visit  to  England. 

"No,"  Jie  answered  her.  "I  had  a  year  here 
about  ten  years  ago!  I  was  sent  over  to  be 
'finished  off.'  " 

She  nodded  approvingly.  "Very  good  thing. 
Mr.  Carmichael  was  saying  at  dinner,  just  now, 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         11 

that  his  people  sent  him  to  America  to  be  'smart- 
ened up' — I  think  that  was  his  expression- 
after  he  left  college. ' ' 

"Very  good  thing,"  echoed  Ben,  with  his 
twinkle. 

"I  can't  imagine  that  Mr.  Carmichael  ever 
needed  any  smartening  up,"  drawled  Lady  Kitty. 
1 '  He 's  quite  too  brilliant  as  it  is.  The  Duke  tells 
me  that  the  party  has  great  hopes  for  him.  They 
say  his  first  speech  was  tremendous.  Your  hus- 
band, too,  May,  said  he  had  a  fine  career  in  front 
of  him  if  he  goes  on  like  this." 

"Sir  Arthur  is  a  good  judge,"  answered  Lady 
Stanhope  evenly. 

"Huh!"  remarked  the  Duchess,  in  her  down- 
right fashion.  It  was  so  peculiarly  honest  and 
individual  that  it  nearly  always  made  people 
laugh.  They  did  so  now,  and  then  Lady  Kitty 
asked:  "Why 'huh'?" 

"Because,"  answered  the  old  lady  with  energy, 
"I  know  the  type;  I  know  the  family — the  Car- 
michaels,  root  and  branch — and  I  know  this  one  in 
particular.  Oh,  yes,  they're  clever,  their  brains 
are  facile  and  quick.  But  things  come  too  easily 
to  them.  That's  why  they  never  learn  values. 
And  they  have  too  much  temperament." 

"What  an  accusation  to  bring  against  an  Eng- 
lishman ! ' '  laughed  Lady  Kitty. 

"Not  English,  Irish." 

"So  he  is — Carmichael.  Why,  it's  as  Irish  as 
Carew." 


12         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Much  more  so,"  said  the  Duchess  with  em- 
phasis. "It  stands  for  all  the  usual  Irish  quali- 
ties :  instability,  a  soft  tongue,  a  wandering  heart, 
rare  gifts  and  qualities — and  the  ability  to  make 
nothing  of  them  all,  through  some  perverse  streak 
in  the  nature." 

Lady  Stanhope  who  had  been  silent,  now  said 
warmly:  "I  think  you  are  very  hard  on  them, 
Duchess — at  least,  on  this  one  of  them.  He  has 
great  ability  and  power.  Sir  Arthur  thinks  so, 
anyway. '  ' 

"And  he's  very  magnetic,"  put  in  Lady  Ititty, 
just  to  tease  the  Duchess,  who  snorted  contempt- 
uously. "And  very  handsome,"  she  added,  "and 
interesting — for  just  look  how  we  are  all  talking 
about  him!" 

"Of  whom  are  you  talking?"  asked  Ben  Bald- 
win. 

"Philip  Carmichael,  M.  P.,"  Lady  Kitty 
answered. 

"What!"  Ben  exclaimed,  "Phil  Carmichael! 
I  wonder  if  it  can  be  the  same?  But  it  must 
be!" 

They  all  turned  to  him  with  interest.  "You 
know  him?"  the  Duchess  asked. 

* '  I  knew  a  Phil  Carmichael  about — er — eight  or 
nine  years  ago,  in  New  York.  It  must  have  been 
during  the  period  of  his  'smartening  up,'  "  he 
twinkled  again  at  the  Duchess.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  he  is  dining  here  to-night?  Well,  I  shall 
be  mighty  glad  to  see  him  again." 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         13 

"Did  you  know  him  well?"  asked  Lady  Stan- 
hope curiously. 

"Oh,  yes,  in  the  sort  of  way  young  chaps  of 
that  age  know  each  other.  He  couldn't  have  been 
more  than  twenty-four  or  twenty-five,  and  I  was 
a  bit  older.  We  went  about  quite  a  lot  together. 
Think  I  showed  him  over  town  pretty  thoroughly. 
I  lost  track  of  him  afterwards — different  lands, 
different  careers,  you  know." 

"But  where  was  I?"  she  persisted,  "and  why 
didn't  I  meet  him?" 

"Oh,  you  and  Sis  must  have  been  still  in  school. 
In  fact,  I  think  all  this  was  before  I  ever  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you." 

"The  pleasure  was  mine,"  she  answered  gaily. 
"I  never  seemed  to  have  had  any  before.  Poor 
Auntie  was  such  a  formalist,  you  remember.  I 
never  went  anywhere  or  did  anything  until  I  was 
really  'out' — except  those  lovely  vacations  with 
Jessie !  And  big  brother  Ben  was  so  nice  to  us ! 
He  took  us  to  the  theater  and  the  opera,  and  we 
tea-ed  at  the  Waldorf  and  lunched  at  Sherry's — 
quite  unchaperoned.  I  thought  it  beautifully 
wicked!  Oh,  and  Ben!  Do  you  remember  the 
night  we  all  went  to  Coney  Island?"  She 
laughed  gaily  at  the  remembrance,  and  he  joined 
in  quietly,  while  the  others  listened.  "I  rode  a 
camel,  with  much  glee  and  gusto,  and  we  met  a 
senator  whom  we  knew,  and  he  took  charge  of 
us — and  our  party  kept  growing.  Finally  we  had 
accumulated  our  favorite  matinee  idol,  an  animal 


14         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

trainer,  and  a  few  Lilliputians  from  the  local 
'Show,'  and  heaven  knows  who  else!  It  was  a 
most  conglomerate  party  and  great  fun — and  your 
mother  was  very  wroth  with  us  all  afterwards." 

"What  fun  you  Americans  have!"  said  Lady 
Kitty  half  enviously.  "We  don't  have  half  so 
much  freedom — until  we  are  married.  Yet  I  think 
our  marriages  are  generally  happier.  At  least, 
they  last  longer!" 

"And  what  of  the  mixed  ones?"  asked  Ben 
Baldwin. 

"Oh — offhand,  I  should  say  there  isn't  a  happy 
one  among  them ! ' ' 

"Oh,"  remonstrated  Lady  Stanhope. 

"It's  true,  my  dear — of  course,  present  com- 
pany excepted.  American  women  are  the  most 
charming  hostesses  in  London — and  the  most  un- 
happy wives." 

Again  Ben  noticed  the  quick  look  that  his  host- 
ess sent  toward  her  guest,  and  again  wondered. 
He  found  himself  waiting  with  curiosity  to  see 
what  Sir  Arthur  Stanhope  was,  and  what  he  had 
contributed  toward  the  subtle  change  which  he 
found  in  his  old  friend.  For  the  change  was  not 
on  the  surface.  Outwardly,  indeed,  she  was  the 
same  warm-hearted,  frank,  sweet  Mary  that  he 
had  known  eight  years  ago,  whom  Jessie  had 
adored,  whom  indeed,  all  his  people  had  greatly 
liked,  he  among  them.  What  high  spirits  she  had 
had,  what  a  sense  of  fun,  what  splendid  health, 
with  its  resultant  buoyancy  of  temperament.  Her 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         15 

nature  overflowed  with  kindness  toward  every 
one,  and  nothing  could  restrain  the  expression 
of  it,  not  even  the  worst  of  her  aunt's  somewhat 
austere  reserve  and  formality.  The  good  lady 
had  passed  away  soon  after  her  niece's  marriage 
to  Sir  Arthur  Stanhope,  and  some  of  the  re- 
straint, the  dignity  which  she  had  tried  to  in- 
culcate in  her  lifetime  seemed  to  have  settled 
upon  her  niece  at  last.  Ben  saw  this  and  won- 
dered if  that  might  make  the  difference  he  felt 
in  her.  After  all,  he  had  not  seen  her  for  eight 
years,  and  marriage  greatly  changes  a  woman. 
But  though  he  told  himself  this,  he  felt,  in  spite 
of  himself,  some  other  thing,  some  deeper  reason 
for  reserve,  some  feeling  held  strongly  in  check. 
He  was  a  lawyer,  and  used  to  reading  minds  and 
sifting  the  motives  that  guide  them.  So  he 
waited. 

''Yes,  they  are  going  to  return  to  the  House 
after  dinner,"  Lady  Stanhope  was  saying,  when 
he  came  back  from  his  momentary  abstraction. 
"Ah,  here  they  come  now.  Arthur — "  she  turned 
to  her  husband,  resting  one  hand  lightly  on  his 
arm,  "this  is  my  old  friend,  Mr.  Ben  Baldwin. 
You  have  often  heard  me  speak  of  him." 

"I  have,  indeed,"  said  Sir  Arthur,  as  he 
grasped  his  guest's  hand  cordially,  "and  I  am 
very  glad  to  meet  you  at  last.  We  have  been 
looking  forward  to  your  coming.  I  hope  you  will 
make  our  house  your  headquarters,  and  command 
us  in  any  way  during  your  stay." 


16        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Ben,  taking  his  usual  rapid  measure  of  the  new 
personality  before  him,  saw  a  man  in  early  middle 
age — somewhat  heavily  set,  with  strong,  immobile 
features,  behind  which,  he  guessed,  lay  a  passive 
obstinacy  of  character.  Sir  Arthur's  manner 
had  a  certain  weight  and  impressiveness,  as 
of  one  accustomed  to  be  looked  up  to  and  con- 
sulted on  difficult  questions.  Ben's  quick  glance 
took  in  all  this  and  noted  the  thinning  gray  hair 
and  the  stolid,  kindly  face,  even  while  he  himself 
was  replying  simply:  "You're  very  kind,  sir." 

He  had  a  native  dignity  and  great  naturalness 
of  his  own,  which  gave  him  an  odd  charm,  it  rang 
so  true.  Sir  Arthur  approved  him  at  once,  and 
turned  to  introduce  him  to  a  slender,  dark-haired 
man  who  had  followed  him  in.  *  *  Cannichael,  let 
me — oh,  you  know  each  other!" 

The  two  men  were  shaking  hands  warmly,  and 
Carmichael  's  gay  voice  was  saying :  *  *  Shades  of 
the  past!  Ben  Baldwin,  is  it  you!  Did  you  step 
off  a  balloon  or  out  of  a  train  of  thought !  I  was 
thinking  of  you  only  the  other  day.  Dear  old 
chap!  Why,  it's  six — seven  years  since  I've  seen 
you." 

"Yes,  quite,"  said  undemonstrative  Ben,  but 
he  was  beaming.  It  was  a  pleasant  welcome. 

"But  you  don't  show  it,  in  the  least!" 

"And  you  less." 

"Ah,  but  I  do!"  returned  Carmichael.    "This 
gay  exterior  covers  a  multitude  of — " 
'Sins?"  put  in  Lady  Kitty  wickedly. 


.  k  • 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         17 

He  gave  her  a  boyish  look  of  comical  dignity. 
1  'Cares,  madam,  cares.  The  responsibilities  of 
Empire  weigh  me  down ! ' ' 

"Feather-down,"  sniffed  the  Duchess. 

"Further  down  than  that,"  twinkled  Car- 
michael,  while  they  all  groaned  and  protested. 

"Same  old  Phil,"  said  Ben  affectionately. 
"Are  you  never  serious?" 

"Always,  dear  boy;  that's  why  they  never  think 
me  so !  But  tell  me  how  you  happen  to  be  here, 
and  how  long  you  are  going  to  stay,  and  all  about 
yourself." 

"Oh,  I  got  a  bit  tired  out  and  had  to  slacken 
up.  Life's  pretty  strenuous  over  in  New  York. 
Doctor  suggested  *  sea- voyage, '  so  I  wrote  to  my 
old  friend,  Lady  Mary,  and  took  the  first  boat 
after  I  got  her  reply.  And  here  I  am." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  are  here,"  Lady  Stanhope 
smiled  with  frank  affection.  "Ben  is  like  a  big 
brother  to  me,"  she  added  to  Carmichael. 

"But  have  you  known  each  other  long?"  he 
asked,  puzzled. 

"Oh,  I 've  known  Ben  always — before  I  was  mar- 
ried, ever  since  my  school  days." 

"But — "  he  said,  still  puzzled,  "I  was  in 
America  about  that  time.  "Why  didn't  I,  also?" 

"It  was  just  after  you  went  back  to  England, 
Phil;  after  your  'smartening  up'  that  my  sister 
brought  her  chum,  Mary  Lord,  home  for  a  Christ- 
mas vacation,"  Ben  explained. 

"Ah,  that's  how  I  missed  you,  then,"  Car- 


18        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

michael  exclaimed.  "And  to  think  that  if  old 
Ben  here  had  known  you  a  little  earlier — say  at 
the  summer  vacation — I  might  have  known  you, 
too!  Things  happen  strangely,  don't  they,  some- 
times ? ' ' 

"They  happen  for  the  best,"  she  answered 
evenly.  Ben  Baldwin  caught  the  end  of  the 
glance  that  passed  between  them,  and  it  gave  him 
something  like  an  electric  shock.  Carmichael's 
was  daring,  ardent,  compelling.  Hers  was  veiled. 

"Don't  you  think  so,  Ben?"  she  added  lightly. 

"It  depends,"  he  answered  slowly,  "on  whether 
you  are  able  to  get  what  you  want — or — to  want 
what  you  get." 

"Very  profound — very  clever,"  said  the  Duke 
of  Northerland,  joining  them.  Ben  turned  to 
meet  a  sweet-faced  old  man  of  over  sixty,  with  the 
most  courtly  manner  he  had  ever  seen.  Lady 
Stanhope  introduced  them,  and  they  continued 
the  conversation. 

"And  in  which  case  do  you  think  things  happen 
for  the  best?"  said  the  Duke.  "When  you  get 
what  you  want,  or  when  you  want  what  you  get?" 

"It's  obvious,  I  think.  Getting  what  you  want 
involves  paying  a  price  for  it — of  one  sort  or  an- 
other— and  so  often  it  turns  out  to  be  not  worth 
what  you  paid  I  But  wanting  what  you  get  im- 
plies the  philosophic  mind — a  priceless  thing  in 
itself." 

The  Duke  nodded  in  approval.  But  Ladv 
Kitty  pouted. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         19 

" Suppose  you  haven't  got  that  kind  of  a  mind; 
you  must  just  go  on  wanting  and  wanting — " 

"Until  you  get  what  you  don't  want!"  said  the 
Duke,  smiling.  "Because,  when  you  get  it,  you 
will  have  ceased  to  want  it. ' ' 

"What  a  cynic  you  are,  Duke,"  said  Mary. 

"Not  I,  my  friend.    But  I  am  a  realist. " 

"And  what  am  I?"  she  asked. 

"An  idealist,  purely.  The  thing  you  imagine 
is  more  real  to  you  than  the  thing  that  is." 

"Well,  anyway,"  she  defended  herself,  "I  am 
faithful  to  my  desires.  Just  because  I  get  them, 
I  don't  cease  to  want  them." 

"You're  a  very  steadfast  person,  child,"  he 
answered,  smiling. 

"Oh,  dear!  that's  the  end  of  the  argument, 
then.  He  always  says  ' child'  when  he  means 
'period'!  I  have  no  more  to  say,"  she  explained 
to  Ben.  "If  he  were  less  gentle,  he  would  have 
said  'you're  a  very  obstinate  person.'  " 

"I'll  be  less  gentle  then,"  said  the  Duke. 
"You're  an  obstinate  idealist." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Sir  Arthur,  coming  to  the 
rescue  of  his  wife.  "Mary  isn't  an  idealist  at 
all.  She's  as  practical  and — er — full  of  com- 
mon sense  as — er — as  can  be!" 

"And  who  knows,  anyway,"  said  Carmichael, 
with  his  eyes  on  Lady  Stanhope,  "who  knows  but 
the  idealists  have  the  truer  vision?  Who  knows 
but  the  ideal  is  the  real!" 

"Who,  indeed?"  answered  the  Duke  softly. 


20         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

\ 

"This  is  getting  beyond  me,"  said  Sir  Arthur, 
with  a  good-natured  laugh.  "I  prefer  the  de- 
bate in  the  House." 

He  had  a  bluff,  almost  brusque  way  of  speaking, 
that  gave  the  effect  of  great  honesty  of  charac- 
ter, which  Ben  divined  truly  that  he  had.  A  solid 
man,  he  thought,  without  heights  or  depths  of  na- 
ture, without  a  past  or  a  future,  very  representa- 
tive of  his  particular  class  and  country;  stable, 
admirable;  very  fond  of  his  life,  of  his  occupa- 
tions, whether  in  the  way  of  sport  or  work ;  very 
fond  also  of  his  home,  his  position  in  the  world, 
his  wife, — certainly  very  fond  of  the  latter  in  a 
quiet,  undemonstrative  British  way. 

Ben  found  himself  wondering  what  the  par- 
ticular attraction  in  him  had  been  for  Mary.  Ah, 
but  she  had  been  young,  and  the  marriage  had 
been  largely  of  her  aunt's  making.  Sir  Arthur 
was  about  fifteen  years  her  senior.  Was  she 
happy!  Ben  wondered,  and  checked  himself  on 
the  threshold  of  an  impertinence,  even  for  such 
an  old  friend  as  himself.  But  do  what  he  would, 
his  thoughts  persistently  went  back  to  the  sweet, 
wild-hearted  hoyden  of  eight  years  ago.  And 
side  by  side  with  that  picture  of  the  past  stood  the 
woman  of  to-night,  full  of  gracious  charm  and 
hidden  fire ;  full  of  tranquil  tact  and  secret  springs 
of  feeling  that  never  overflowed  into  expression. 
He  wondered  how  he  knew  they  were  there!  The 
only  answer  was — he  knew  it.  The  impulses 
were  all  controlled  now ;  the  training  of  her  Eng- 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         21 

lish  life  had  given  her  a  restraint  and  social  com- 
mand that  were  very  fascinating  to  his  fastidious 
requirements  in  a  woman.  But  underneath  all, 
he  felt  she  was  the  same  Mary  he  had  known — not 
free  now,  but  the  same,  and  broader,  far,  far 
bigger  of  heart  and  brain  than  then.  What  had 
so  developed  her!  Her  husband!  No.  Some- 
how, Ben  divined  that  he  was  quite  outside  her 
real  life,  a  pleasant  but  not  an  intimate  part  of 
it.  Well,  to  natures  like  hers,  experience  was 
bound  to  come ;  whether  for  good  or  ill,  it  would 
come. 

She  and  Carmichael  had  drawn  a  little  apart 
from  the  others,  over  by  one  of  the  windows  that 
opened  on  to  the  strip  of  garden  sloping  down  to 
the  embankment. 

"Do  you  ever  wish,'*  he  said  to  her,  "that  you 
could  go  on  forever,  like  the  river  there,  always 
to  something  new — never  passing  over  the  same 
place  twice — but  going  on  and  on — " 

"But  isn't  that  just  what  we  do?"  she  asked. 
"We  never  can  live  over  the  same  thing  twice. 
Life  is  always  new  and  different. ' ' 

"Is  it?"  he  answered  moodily.  "To  me, 
at  present,  it  is  a  dead  level,  and  so  hemmed 
in  by  conventions,  restrictions — "  He  left 
the  sentence  unfinished  and  stared  out  into 
the  night.  There  was  a  little  silence,  and 
then  she  said  lightly:  "Well,  so  is  the  river  a 
dead  level,  and  hemmed  in  by  banks — and  gar- 
dens— and  other  safe  and  pleasant  barriers." 


22         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

" Pleasant  barriers?"  He  frowned,  a  vibrant, 
eager  note  in  his  voice.  "Mary,  are  barriers 
pleasant,  ever?" 

"They  are  safe,"  she  answered. 

"What  if  the  tide  should  rise?"  he  said  dar- 
ingly. 

"It  would  spoil  the  garden."  She  spoke  sim- 
ply, almost  literally.  But  the  veiled  look  was 
over  her  eyes  again,  and  he  could  not  read  what 
kind  of  a  dream,  if  any,  lay  behind  them. 

"You  leave  so  much  to  the  imagination,"  he 
said.  "One  never  knows  how  much — or  how  lit- 
tle— you  mean." 

She  only  smiled  at  him  for  answer.  Her  lithe 
and  beautiful  figure  was  sharply  outlined  against 
the  old-rose  curtain,  and  one  arm  was  stretched 
along  the  opened  glass  door  as  she  leaned  against 
it.  The  man  stood  for  a  moment,  drinking  in  the 
beauty  of  her,  of  the  upturned  face,  with  the  lure 
of  its  perilous  dream  unveiled  for  an  instant,  un- 
der his  eyes.  Only  for  an  instant,  then  her  lids 
hid  the  splendor  again.  But  he  had  seen.  His 
pulses  were  singing. 

She  turned  without  apparent  effort  to  her  other 
guests.  "It  really  is  heavenly  outside,  to-night, 
Duchess.  Wouldn't  you  like  a  wrap  and  to  come 
out  for  a  stroll?" 

"Not  I,  my  dear,  thank  you;  my  moonstruck 
days  are  over." 

Sir  Arthur  was  saying  good  night  to  his  guests, 
and  apologizing  for  having  to  return  to  the  House. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         23 

11  Where  are  you  staying?"  he  said  to  Ben. 
"Savoy?  Good.  We  shall  hope  to  see  much  of 
you.  My  dear,"  he  turned  to  his  wife,  "you 
will  make  your  old  friend  feel  quite  at  home, 
won't  you?" 

"Lunch  with  me  to-morrow,  at  the  Bachelor's 
Club,"  said  Carmichael  to  Ben,  as  he  prepared  to 
accompany  his  host,  "and  we'll  have  a  talk  over 
old  times — dear  old  Ben."  He  gave  him  an  af- 
fectionate slap  on  the  shoulder  and  departed. 
Lady  Kitty  also  said  good  night,  as  she  was  go- 
ing on  somewhere  else.  The  Duke  and  Duchess 
remained  for  a  while,  and  the  little  party  of  four 
drew  closer  together. 

Ben  Baldwin  felt  the  tension  relax  somewhat, 
and  the  charm  of  the  environment  stole  over  his 
tired  nerves.  How  orderly,  how  dignified  it  all 
was,  how  tranquilly  these  English  people  ar- 
ranged their  lives.  With  what  charming  tact 
they  made  him  feel  one  of  themselves,  choosing 
subjects  that  he  knew,  speaking  of  America,  of 
life  in  the  States,  east  and  west,  just  touching  on 
political  systems,  and  on  everyday  philosophy  and 
religion.  Their  friendship  for  Lady  Mary  was  of 
course  their  common  ground.  They  had  known 
her  as  a  child  in  arms  before  her  parents  went  to 
live  in  America.  They  really  were  god-parents 
to  her,  though  she  used  the  word  in  speaking  to 
the  Duke  only,  who  seemed  particularly  fond  of 
her. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  ever  would  have   got 


24         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

through  that  first  London  season  without  them," 
she  told  Ben  laughingly.  "  I  made  so  many  mis- 
takes and  scandalized  Auntie  over  and  over. 
But  these  dears  seemed  to  like  me  from  the  first. 
What  Auntie  called  my  ' gaucheries'  they  said 
were  so  'delightfully  American.'  They  made 
everybody  else  think  so,  too,  even  Sir  Arthur.  I 
married  at  the  end  of  my  first  season." 

"That,"  said  the  Duke,  with  a  twinkle,  "was 
almost  the  only  thing  you  ever  did,  Mary,  that 
really  pleased  your  august  aunt." 

"Yes,  wasn't  it?"  She  smiled.  "Poor 
Auntie!  Well,  it  must  be  very  hard  to  bring  up 
somebody  else's  different  little  child!  She  was 
kind  to  me  in  her  way,  but — we  never  understood 
each  other.  My  father  had  wished  me  to  be 
brought  up  in  America — his  country — and  though 
Auntie  hated  it,  she  made  herself  a  martyr  to  the 
wish,  and  stayed  there  with  me  most  of  the  time, 
until  my  school-days  were  over.  Happy  days 
they  were,  too,  back  there  in  New  York." 

"That  is  just  what  Carmichael  was  saying  at 
dinner,"  said  the  Duke. 

"Fancy!"  she  returned,  "and  I  didn't  know 
until  then  that  he  had  ever  been  there!" 

"Have  you  known  him  long!"  asked  Ben 
casually,  but  he  found  himself  waiting  for  her 
answer. 

"Let  me  see."  She  considered  a  moment. 
"Why,  it  must  be  less  than  a  year.  You  remem- 
ber, Duke,  when  he  made  his  speech  that  you  all 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         25 

thought  so  wonderful?  Sir  Arthur  brought  him 
here  soon  after  that." 

"It  was  an  unusually  able  and  brilliant 
presentation  of  a  most  difficult  question,"  the 
Duke  replied.  "Frankly,  the  man  interests  me." 

'  *  Why,  particularly  I ' '  she  asked. 

"Because  he  puzzles  me,  I  suppose.  Those 
mixed  temperaments  are  full  of  surprises,  even  for 
the  people  who  think  they  know  them  best." 

"Does  anybody  really  know  Mr.  CarmichaelT" 
asked  the  Duchess. 

"I  knew  him  intimately  ten  years  ago,"  said 
Ben  staunchly.  "He  was  taking  some  post- 
graduate law  courses  at  Yale.  Precious  little 
study  he  ever  did!"  he  laughed  reminiscently. 
"But,  as  you  suggested,  Duke,  a  more  able,  quick- 
witted speaker,  I  never  heard." 

"Gift  o'  the  gab — huh!"  remarked  the  Duchess 
laconically. 

This,  as  usual,  made  them  all  laugh,  and  the 
little  party  broke  up  with  a  hospitably  expressed 
hope  from  the  Duke,  as  he  shook  Ben's  hand,  that 
they  might  see  more  of  each  other.  Then  Mary 
asked  him  to  dine  with  them  to-morrow,  and  he 
smilingly  accepted. 

But  as  he  walked  back  to  the  Savoy  and  began 
to  sort  out  his  impressions  of  the  several  new  per- 
sonalities that  he  had  met  that  evening,  it  became 
more  and  more  difficult  to  find  his  old  friend, 
Mary,  among  them.  In  spite  of  her  warm  hos- 
pitality, in  spite  of  her  spontaneous  sweetness  of 


26         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

manner,  her  impulsive  utterance,  and  her  quick, 
sympathetic  comprehension  of  him,  which  he  felt 
unchanged  in  her,  he  could  not  find  the  woman 
herself.  It  was  as  if  all  these  things  were  veils, 
as  if  her  very  frankness  and  simplicity  concealed, 
instead  of  revealing^  her.  His  perceptions  were 
very  keen,  his  intuitions  even  keener.  He  seemed 
to  feel  in  her  depths  beyond  depths,  and  it  made 
him  wonder — and  dread  what  was  in  her  heart. 

And  then  he  thought  of  Carmichael.  His  mind 
went  back  to  that  period  of  seven  years  ago  when 
they  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  each  other.  How 
gay  he  had  been,  what  a  companion,  reckless,  gen- 
erous, extravagant!  What  scrapes  he  had  pulled 
the  boy  out  of!  One  in  particular  Ben  remem- 
bered with  something  like  disgust ;  and  insensibly 
he  quickened  his  pace  as  if  to  leave  the  remem- 
brance, whatever  it  was,  farther  behind  in  the 
past.  "Beastly  business,'*  he  thought.  "Some 
day  must  speak  to  Phil  about  that — perhaps  to- 
morrow, if  he  gives  me  a  chance.*' 

Last  of  all  he  thought  of  Sir  Arthur,  but  the 
probe  of  his  questions  fell  back  blunted.  Sir 
Arthur  was  like  a  solid  wall  which  could  not 
be  pierced.  He  found  that  he  could  not  even  sur- 
mise regarding  his  attitude  toward  any  given 
question,  or  as  to  what  he  would  do  in  any  con- 
tingency. He  put  him  down  as  a  "quiet  man"; 
but  as  to  what  went  on  beneath  that  quietness,  or 
whether  anything  did,  Ben,  with  all  his  acuteness, 
could  not  determine. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         27 

But,  somehow,  as  lie  paused  for  a  moment  be- 
fore going  in,  to  sum  it  all  up,  he  had  an  uneasy 
premonition  that  he  was  sitting  in  the  audience, 
waiting  for  the  curtain  to  go  up. 


CHAPTER  II 

"Keep  me,  dear  lips,  oh,  keep 
The  great,  last  word  unspoken! 
Lest  other  eyes  go  weep, 
And  other  lives  lie  broken/' 

W.  E.  HENLEY. 

BUT  if  Ben  Baldwin  felt  a  sense  of  uneasi- 
ness at  what  might  be  in  the  heart  of  his 
old  friend,  Lady  Stanhope,  it  was  as 
nothing  compared  to  the  wonder  and  dread  of 
the  woman  herself.  Beneath  her  pleasant  world- 
liness — the  result  of  her  circumstances  and  en- 
vironment— beneath  her  gay  good-nature,  and 
easy  friendliness,  was  the  stock  of  the  Puritan 
that  knew  no  compromise  with  evil.  Mostly  con- 
vent-bred, her  natural  purity  of  idealism  had 
not  been  sullied  by  any  taint  of  temptation.  She 
had  never  met  it,  never  known  it.  There  were 
in  her  immense,  unmeasured  depths  of  power  and 
feeling,  which  gave  ardor  and  passionate  fidelity 
to  her  few  friendships.  As  a  child  she  had 
starved  for  the  expression  of  natural  affection, 
of  which  the  early  loss  of  her  parents  had  de- 
prived her.  Later,  a  girl  at  school,  love  became 
to  her  a  dream,  an  ideal.  As  a  young  woman  it 
was  still  that,  never  taking  tangible  shape,  never 
touching  reality,  never  embodied.  Yet  her  warm 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE        29 

nature  drew  many  people  to  her,  and  lovers  were 
not  lacking  as  soon  as  she  had  been  introduced  to 
the  world.  She  and  her  aunt  had  possessed  very 
little  money,  but  the  social  connection  of  the  latter 
had  been  of  great  advantage  to  the  girl,  and  at 
the  end  of  her  first  season  in  London  there  had 
been  several  proposals  for  her  hand.  Of  them 
all,  her  aunt  had  preferred  Sir  Arthur  Stanhope. 
He  was  older,  possessed  of  moderate  wealth,  of 
excellent  position,  and  was  genuinely  in  love  with 
the  girl.  She  liked  him,  too,  immensely.  They 
were  congenial  companions,  and  as  they  were 
thrown  more  and  more  together,  the  somewhat 
wistful  young  heart,  seeking  it  knew  not  what, 
found,  or  seemed  to  find,  an  answer  to  its  un- 
conscious question.  She  began  to  love  his  love 
of  her,  and  she  thought,  not  unnaturally,  that  she 
loved  him,  himself.  She  had  never  known  love 
nor  even  seen  it — the  love  of  one  for  one. 

And  they  were  married. 

They  had  been  eight  happy  years,  on  the  whole. 
Her  nature  had  expanded  under  the  greater  af- 
fection of  her  husband  and  the  greater  freedom 
of  her  life.  Her  old  friends,  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  Northerland,  had  been  her  social 
sponsors,  and  her  own  tact  and  beauty  had  won 
her  an  enviable  position  in  her  world.  She  was 
one  of  the  most  popular  hostesses  of  the  younger 
set.  Not  having  children,  her  energies  flowed  out 
in  many  ways,  social,  intellectual,  philanthropic; 
and  Sir  Arthur  watched  her  and  admired  her  in 


30         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

his  quiet,  undemonstrative  way,  but  never  needed 
her,  being  strong  and  sufficient  unto  himself. 

Perhaps,  after  a  time,  bit  by  bit,  she  felt  that ; 
perhaps  it  was  the  thing  that  prevented  her  giv- 
ing him  the  whole  of  her  rich  nature ;  but  she  was 
probably  unconscious  of  it,  except  in  a  vague  way, 
as  many  people  are  of  the  deepest  things,  until 
suddenly,  out  of  the  blue,  they  rush  upon  the 
heart  with  a  conviction  that  indicates  foreknowl- 
edge. 

Philip  Carmichael,  coming  into  their  lives  at 
this  juncture,  struck  that  chord  in  her;  the  chord 
that  needed  her  for  its  own  completion.  He  was 
just  at  the  beginning  of  his  career,  flushed  with 
his  first  success,  with  the  applause  of  his  party 
still  in  his  ears.  He  was  being  rapidly  taken  up 
by  the  best  people;  house  after  house  was  open- 
ing to  him,  and  from  the  position  of  a  somewhat 
obscure  and  impecunious,  Irish,  younger  son,  his 
own  gifts  of  brain  and  breeding  were  carrying 
him  on  to  phenomenal  success,  if  there  were  any 
truth  in  prophecy.  He  had  great  personal  mag- 
netism and  a  natural  gift  for  oratory,  with  some- 
thing of  an  actor's  power  over  an  audience,  and 
something  of  a  diplomat's  ability  to  utilize  a 
situation.  He  was  keen-witted,  resourceful,  am- 
bitious. But  a  curious  double  nature  in  him 
hindered  his  development.  With  a  self-conceit 
which  gave  him  courage,  he  had  also  a  self-dis- 
trust which  made  him  as  dependent  as  a  child 
is  on  the  spoken  word  of  praise.  This  was  a 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE        31 

weakness  in  him,  yet,  inconsistently,  perhaps,  it 
made  him  the  more  lovable. 

To  a  woman  like  Mary  Stanhope,  it  was  a 
direct  call.  It  provided  a  new  outlet  for  her 
overflow  of  kindness.  It  was  something  for  her 
warm  heart  to  help.  Often,  when  a  hard  debate 
lay  before  him,  he  had  come  to  her,  not  for  in- 
spiration, as  a  more  poetic  man  might  have  done, 
but  just  to  be  believed  in,  to  be  made  confident, 
to  be  made  strong.  And  she  never  failed  him, 
because  her  faith  in  him,  in  his  power,  was  genu- 
ine. He  grew  to  need  her,  to  depend  upon  her, 
and  she  grew  to  love  the  need  and  the  dependence. 
No  one  had  ever  asked  so  much  of  her  before, 
and  to  no  one  had  she  ever  given  so  much  men- 
tally. 

And  suddenly,  without  a  spoken  word  or  sign, 
the  troubled  consciousness  of  both  registered 
deeper  vibrations,  greater  needs — and  a  tremen- 
dous, unknown  force  trembled  into  life  between 
them. 

To  the  man  it  brought  a  sense  of  exhilaration, 
of  power,  as  of  a  tribute  paid  to  a  conqueror. 
To  the  woman  it  brought  an  overwhelming  sense 
of  dread,  of  fear.  There  was  joy  in  it,  too,  secret 
and  intense,  but  her  mind  was  too  pure  to  in- 
dulge in  it.  For  her  it  could  mean  only  one 
thing — utter  renunciation.  She  saw  as  little  of 
him  as  possible,  and  it  only  increased  his  ardor; 
she  saw  him  only  in  the  company  of  others,  and 
her  self-command,  her  apparent  coolness,  only  in- 


82        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

flamed  his  passion,  until  he  grew  to  think  of  one 
thing  only,  the  possibility  of  possessing  her  love, 
of  making  her  own  to  it,  confess  it — and  then — 
Even  Philip  Carmichael's  daring  imagination 
could  not  travel  further  than  that  moment.  Her 
dignity  was  so  truly  of  the  soul,  her  purity  so 
almost  virginal,  it  was  the  best  part  of  the  man 
that  reached  out  to  her.  He  was  used  to  attain- 
ing his  ends,  conquests  had  been  more  or  less  easy 
to  him.  But  no  woman  before  had  given  him  this 
great  quality  of  friendship,  which  held  in  it  the 
germ  of  love. 

Coming  down-stairs  dressed  for  a  drive  on  the 
day  after  Ben  Baldwin's  arrival,  Mary  Stanhope 
met  Mr.  Philip  Carmichael  just  as  he  was  about 
to  be  announced. 

"Oh,  were  you  just  going  out?"  he  said,  and 
then,  seeing  the  carriage  at  the  door, 4  *  Well,  take 
me  with  you,  won't  you?" 

She  reflected,  irresolute,  for  a  moment,  then 
smiled.  "No,  it  isn't  important.  Henry,  send 
away  the  carriage,  please,  and  take  Mr.  Car- 
michael to  the  drawing-room.  I'll  take  off  my 
hat  and  be  with  you  in  a  moment." 

She  laughed  lightly  at  his  protestations,  and 
went  back  up-stairs.  Carmichael,  meantime, 
walked  up  and  down  the  drawing-room  in  moody 
excitement.  The  footman  had  opened  the  long 
windows  to  the  late  afternoon  sun,  and  the  little 
slope  of  garden  bounded  by  the  sleepy  river  made 
an  enticing  picture.  He  felt  restless,  with  an 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         38 

odd,  inward  excitement  that  was  partly  torture 
and  partly  exhilaration,  but  was  wholly  out  of 
harmony  with  the  tranquil  surroundings.  "What 
had  brought  him  there?  Why  had  he  come  at  an 
hour  when  he  guessed  she  might  be  alone?  And 
what  should  he  say  to  her  now  that  he  was  there  I 
If  only  he  were  sure  of  her — 

She  was  softly  coming  down  the  stairs;  he 
heard  the  gracious  stir  of  her  movement  and  the 
lilt  of  a  little  song  she  hummed  as  she  walked. 
His  pulses  quickened.  Eagerly  he  leaned  for- 
ward for  the  first  glimpse  of  her.  It  was  a  thing 
to  look  for — that  easy  freedom  of  movement — 
which  yet  held  the  right  restraint,  that  confident 
carriage  of  the  head  with  its  shining,  shadowy 
hair.  A  line  of  an  old  poem  came  into  his  head 
and  he  said  it  aloud,  as  she  moved  toward  him: 
"When  first  I  saw  my  lady,  'twas  in  her  father's 
hall—" 

"  Husband's  hall,"  she  corrected  lightly. 
"By  the  way,  did  you  see  him?  I  was  thinking 
of  driving  down  to  the  House  and  bringing  you 
both  back  to  tea. '  ' 

"Very  nice  of  you,"  he  answered.  "You  see 
I  didn't  even  wait  to  be  asked.  I  just  had  to  see 
you." 

She  was  all  sympathy  and  attention  at  once. 
' '  Something  particular  ?  Can  I  help  you !  What 
is  it!" 

The  frank  good  faith  of  her!  He  kept  back 
a  sigh  as  he  turned  away.  She  thought  it  was 


34    THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

something  to  do  with  his  career,  his  prospects, 
his  promotion.  She  was  always  ready  to  listen, 
to  counsel,  to  assist  in  any  way  she  could.  And 
how  much  she  had  helped  him,  in  every  way,  al- 
ready. He  walked  the  length  of  the  room  and 
back  with  nervous  indecision,  and  she,  knowing 
his  erratic  ways,  waited  with  a  smile. 

"No,"  he  said  at  last,  pausing  before  her. 
"It's  nothing  particular — just  a  mood — and  I 
need  you.  I  seem  to  need  you  a  lot,  don't  It 
You're  awfully  good  to  me,  Mary." 

"What  nonsense!" 

"No,  it's  true.  You  give  me  so  much.  I  don't 
think  I  realize  it  myself,  until  I  remember  what 
it  was  like  before." 

"Before?" 

"Before  I  met  you.  I  had  never  known  a 
woman's  friendship  until  then." 

"Philip  Carmichael!"  she  remonstrated  with 
utter  unbelief. 

"It's  true,"  he  said  again.  "Of  course  one 
has  had — experiences.  One  has  known  women. 
One  has  been  in  love  scores  of  times — well,  no, 
but  once  or  twice.  But  this  is  different.  You 
can't  think  how  much  it  means  to  me." 

"I'm  glad,"  she  said  simply. 

"You  see  I  never  had  anything  like  it.  And 
when  I  won  my  election,  and  things  began  to 
open  up  for  me,  and  I  met  you,  it  made  me  realize 
how  much  I  had  missed  all  these  years.  Strange 
how  things  happen,  isn't  it?" 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         35 

"Yes,"  she  said,  rather  puzzled.  "But 
what—" 

"Oh,  I  was  just  thinking  how  we  ought  to  have 
met,  years  ago,  in  America — through  Ben  and  his 
people,  you  know.  It  might  easily  have  happened. 
Only  it  just  didn't." 

"Perhaps  it's  just  as  well,"  she  said.  "We 
mightn't  have  liked  each  other  then." 

"That  isn't  conceivable." 

She  smiled  happily.  "No,  I  really  don't  think 
it  is.  Still,  it  is  odd  how  people  come  into  your 
life  and  influence  it  mightily  at  one  time,  who 
never  could  have  any  effect  upon  it  at  another. ' ' 

"You  would  always  have  influenced  my  life,  at 
whatever  time  you  came.  But  I  wonder  if  I  could 
have  altered  yours,  Mary!" 

"Bather  a  fruitless  speculation,  isn't  it?"  she 
asked  lightly. 

"Perhaps,  now,  but  it  mightn't  have  been — 
then." 

"I  wonder."  She  spoke  dreamily,  looking  out 
at  the  garden  and  noting  how  the  shadows  were 
growing  longer. 

"You  know,"  he  went  on,  "I've  had  to  do 
nearly  everything  for  myself!  I  haven't  any 
people  of  my  own,  now,  and  there  wasn't  much 
money  left  after  my  education  was  finished — 
meaning,  of  course,  when  it  had  just  begun.  It 
began  in  America — "  He  stopped  suddenly. 
Some  thought  contracted  his  straight  brows  for 
a  moment,  then  he  shook  it  off  vigorously,  much 


36        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

as  a  spaniel  shakes  water  from  his  coat,  when 
he  reaches  dry  land,  and  continued:  "I'm  nearly 
thirty-four  now,  and  I've  only  just  begun  to 
live." 

"Dear  boy,  few  people  begin  before,"  she  said 
sagely. 

"Have  you  begun?"  he  asked  searchingly — 
suddenly. 

She  evaded  him  laughingly.  "IT  Well,  I'm 
not  thirty-four." 

"Don't  fence,  Mary.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
Have  you  found  the  thing  that  makes  it  worth 
while,  or  would  make  it  so  if  you  could  have  it? 
Are  you  content — fulfilled — satisfied?  Or  are 
you,  too — I  wish  I  knew!"  he  broke  off. 

"Phil,  dear,  everybody  feels  like  that — at  times. 
It's  the  Spring.  It  will  pass.  Think  how  splen- 
did it  is  that  you  have  begun,  that  things  are 
coming  to  you,  at  last." 

"And  now  that  they  are,"  he  answered,  speak- 
ing out  his  thoughts  just  as  they  came,  "now 
that  it  all  lies  before  me — opportunity — success 
— ultimate  reward — what  is  it  worth  to  me? 
These  are  the  things  I  wanted  years  ago  and  they 
seem  worth  nothing  at  all  now  without  the  other 
thing  I  want.  And  I  'm  still  a  long  way  from  that. 
It's  as  if  some  one  led  me  to  another  person's 
garden  and  allowed  me  a  peep  through  the  shut 
gate.  And  I  stand  outside  and  long — for  it  to  be 
mine!" 

The  silence,  heavy  with  feeling,  hung  between 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE        37 

them  for  a  moment.  Carmichael  held  his  breath, 
it  became  so  oppressive.  A  trouble  was  growing 
in  her  face,  and  she  kept  it  turned  from  him  and 
from  the  room,  still  watching  the  garden  paths. 
Finally  she  moved  gently  over  to  the  window  and 
stood  there  with  her  back  to  him.  She  could  not 
pretend  that  she  had  not  understood  him — but 
how  to  answer  him — what  to  say!  He  could  not 
see  her  face,  but  he  watched  her  figure.  Its  lines 
were  expressive  always,  its  gentle  pliancy  just  fit 
to  be  folded  in  arms  that  longed  for  her,  he 
thought.  If  he  only  knew  what  was  passing 
through  her  mind — if  he  only  dared.  He  drew 
nearer  and  asked  impetuously:  "What  are  you 
thinking?"  She  hesitated  a  moment  before  an- 
swering. 

"I  was  thinking  of  your  garden — and  its  shut 
gate — and  of  how  nothing  ever  stays  the  same — 
and  of  how  the  shadows  have  been  lengthening 
even  as  we  talked.  Look  out  there!  The  little 
rosebush's  shadow  reaches  nearly  to  the  cypress 
tree!" 

One  phrase  of  all  this  he  caught  up  eagerly. 
"'Nothing  ever  stays  the  same!'  Mary, 
honestly,  would  you  have  things  stay  the  same 
between  us — just  as  they  have  been,  just — 
friends!" 

"Of  course,"  she  said  simply.  "You  see  it  is 
that — or  nothing,  and — "  she  gave  him  a  beauti- 
ful look — "I  couldn't  bear  it  to  be — nothing! 
It's  meant  so  much  to  me,  given  me  such  an  in- 


38        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

terest.  I  couldn't  do  without  it  now;  I  couldn't 
do  without  my — friend." 

"I'm  not  that,  Mary.    I'm—" 

"Don't  say  it,  Phil!"  she  entreated  quickly, 
"don't  say  what  you're  going  to;  it  mustn't  be 
said." 

"It  doesn't  have  to  be,"  he  answered,  "because 
you  know."  Their  eyes  held  each  other  for  a 
moment,  then  she  turned  away. 

"Yes — I — know,"  she  just  breathed. 

"Mary — what  are  we  going  to  do?" 

Her  eyes  closed,  and  she  did  not  answer.  He 
came  close,  with  sudden  passion,  and  held  her 
hand  hard  against  his  breast,  bending  to  kiss  it 
over  and  over  through  the  quick,  hot  words. 

' '  I  love  you — I  love  you — you  must  have  known 
it,  so  there 's  no  harm  in  saying  it.  Oh,  I  love  you ! 
There's  nothing  else  to  say  or  think  but  that. 
But  you — you  love  me,  too.  I  didn't  know  that 
before.  I  saw  it  in  your  eyes  just  now.  Open 
them,  and  let  me  know  it  again."  She  swayed 
into  his  arms.  "God!"  he  said,  as  they  closed 
around  her,  "what  a  different  world  it  is!" 

So  they  stood  for  a  little  while,  wrapped  around 
with  the  old,  immortal  spell.  Outside,  the  wester- 
ing sun  had  sent  the  rosebush's  shadow  quite  to 
the  cypress  tree.  But  neither  noticed  it  now. 
Eyes  on  eyes  they  lived  an  unmeasured  moment. 
But  before  their  lips  had  met,  she  gently  released 
herself,  putting  his  arms  away  from  her.  He 
saw  that  she  fought  for  self-control ;  and  the  man 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE        39 

in  him  exulted  for  joy  of  her,  for  joy  of  her 
beauty,  and  the  spirit  that  inspired  it. 

She  stood  a  little  way  off  from  him  and  looked 
at  him  very  wistfully,  very  sadly.  Meeting  that 
look,  and  the  things  it  said  without  words, 
his  own  joy  faded  out  of  his  face.  He  knew  he 
faced  a  forlorn  hope.  Still,  he  could  not  give 
it  up. 

"It's  in  your  hands  now,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  Phil!  why  did  you  do  it?" 

"It  had  to  be,  Dearest." 

"Yes,"  she  repeated,  "it  had  to  be.  I  always 
knew  that  you  would  speak;  but  I  hoped  you 
wouldn't.  It's  bound  to  change  things  between 
us." 

"My  Sweet!"  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper, 
"what  can  we  hope?"  And  then,  lower  still: 
"What  dare  we  do?"  He  would  have  taken  her 
again  in  his  arms,  but  with  a  grave  gesture  of 
detachment,  she  restrained  him.  Not  looking  at 
him  at  all,  but  looking,  as  it  were,  inward,  she 
said — and  her  words  were  almost  toneless— 
"There  is  nothing  to  hope — or  do.  There  is 
nothing — for  you  and  me." 

"Mary!" 

With  her  beautiful  honesty,  she  turned  and 
faced  him,  not  attempting  to  deny  or  conceal  her 
feeling,  but  letting  the  frank  force  of  it  shine  out 
of  her  eyes. 

"You  have  said  the  most  precious  thing  in  the 
world  to  me,  Philip,  the  most  precious  thing — 


40        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

and  I  can  never  forget  it.  All  my  life  will  be  rich 
for  it.  But  it  ends  our  friendship." 

"It  begins  our  love." 

"You  know,  Dear,  there  can't  be  love — for  us," 
she  said  gently.  "And,  oh,  there  can't  be  friend- 
ship either,  for  that  is  past !  Philip — Philip,  what 
shall  I  do  without  you?" 

There  was  the  ring  of  grief  and  renunciation 
in  her  tone.  Her  mind  had  leaped  ahead  to  the 
inevitable  sequence  of  this  interview,  to  a  life 
bereft  of  its  primal  purpose,  its  absorbing  in- 
terest. But  he,  not  seeing  her  vision,  answered 
her  words. 

"You  don't  have  to  do  without  me.  And  I 
can't  do  without  you.  I  need  you — I  want  you 
—and  you  love  me,  too!  Don't  you  know  feel- 
ings like  these  can't  break  off  in  the  middle;  they 
must  go  on  to  some  conclusion.  You  can't  stop 
a  love-force  by  just  denying  it." 

"I  thought  I  could  help  you,"  she  went  on. 
"I  seemed  to  see  what  you  needed,  and  I  gave  it. 
It  was  sweet  to  me  to  give  it,  for  it  gave  me  some- 
thing, too — a  new,  high  interest  in  life.  You 
made  me  feel  that  I  might  help  to  make  a  man 
great,  and  that  he  needed  me — just  me. ' ' 

"He  does,"  said  Carmichael,  deeply. 

"And  now,"  she  continued,  not  heeding  him, 
"don't  you  see  how  you  have  changed  things? 
I  can't  help  you  any  more.  I  could  only  harm 
you,  because  you  have  shown  me  that  we  are  not 
really  friends ;  we  are  just  a  man  and  a  woman ! ' ' 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         41 

''Just  that,  a  man  and  a  woman  who  love  each 
other.  Thank  God  for  it!" 

"No,"  she  said  very  quietly,  "we  must  put  it 
behind  us,  Philip.  We  must — play  fair."  It 
was  the  phrase  of  a  schoolboy,  but  perhaps  for 
that  very  reason  it  caught  his  attention. 

*  *  You  don 't  love  me  then,  as  I  thought, ' '  he  said 
bitterly. 

"I  don't  love  any  one,"  she  answered  proudly, 
"enough  to  sin  for  him." 

He  took  her  hands  masterfully  in  his.  "I  will 
make  you  love  me  even  enough  for  that!"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  don't,  don't!"     She  was  trembling. 

"But  you  mustn't  send  me  away,  Mary.  Why, 
even  to  meet  on  the  old  terms,  and  pretend  this 
talk  had  never  taken,  place — anything,  in  fact, 
would  be  better  than  that.  Think  of  the  times 
we  have  been  together  in  the  last  six  months; 
think  of  what  you've  been  to  me!" 

"Phil,  dear,"  she  said  wearily,  "I  can't  argue 
about  it — or  reason;  but  I  know  it's  right  we 
shouldn't  meet  very  often — for  a  time  at  least." 

"But  why — why!"  he  persisted. 

Mary  Stanhope  turned  her  face  to  him  again, 
with  the  crystal  honesty  that  was  her  rare  gift. 

"Because  I  don't  dare,"  she  said. 

And  then  he  knew  he  was  loved,  indeed.  With 
sudden  humility  he  raised  the  hands  he  still  held 
and  kissed  them  before  he  left  her. 

But  she  went  up-stairs  to  her  bedroom,  where 


42        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

she  shut  herself  in,  alone,  well  knowing  that  the 
hardest  part  of  her  hard  task  was  with  herself, 
with  her  own  unruly  heart.  She  walked  up  and 
down  for  some  time,  her  figure  passing  and  re- 
passing  in  the  mirrors.  One  reflected  the  tumult 
of  emotion  set  free  from  conventional  restraint, 
and  it  brought  a  deep  color  to  the  cheeks  and  a 
rare  light  to  the  eyes,  which  closed  over  the  secret 
ecstasy  of  the  words  re-echoing  in  her  brain:  "I 
love  you — there's  nothing  else  to  say  or  think 
but  that."  Re-opening  them,  and  seeing  herself 
as  the  mirror  faithfully  portrayed  her,  she  turned 
away,  fiercely  crushing  the  feeling  back,  with  a 
shudder  of  self-loathing.  It  was  a  troubled, 
struggling  woman  for  many  moments,  uncon- 
scious, passionate  gesture  betraying  the  longing 
which  would  not  be  controlled,  yet  which  could 
not  control  her.  After  a  while  she  forced  herself 
to  face  the  reality  calmly.  She  was  young, 
beautiful,  and  two  men  loved  her.  One  she  loved 
— and  there  was  a  wrong  in  it.  One  loved  her, 
and  there  was  no  wrong  in  it,  except  that  she  did 
not  return  the  love.  Put  so  simply,  there  could 
be  but  one  decision  for  her.  There  was  some- 
thing wrong  in  herself,  something  to  be  conquered, 
forever  kept  under,  forever  renounced.  The 
trouble  began  to  go  out  of  her  face,  the  strain 
out  of  her  body,  and  the  mirrors  in  the  room  re- 
flected a  growing  sadness,  a  gradual  release  of  the 
light  from  eyes  which  became  slowly  blind  with 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         43 

tears.     Groping,  she  found  her  way  to  her  little 

prie-dieu  and  sank  on  her  knees  with  hidden  face. 

******** 

Sir  Arthur,  knocking  on  her  door  an  hour  or 
two  later,  gave  an  exclamation  of  pleasure  at  the 
radiant  figure  which  confronted  him  over  the 
threshold. 

"By  Jove!  How  rippin'  you  look,  my  dear. 
What's  on  to-night?  Do  we  dine  with  the 
king?" 

"That's  it!"  she  answered  gaily.  "And  here 
he  is !"  She  gave  him  a  swift  little  pat  and  swept 
him  a  curtsey.  "Come  in  and  admire,  and  do 
make  a  fuss  about  it,  for  it 's  only  just  come  home 
— and  I  hate  to  think  what  it  cost!" 

"So  do  I!"  replied  her  husband,  with  a  lugu- 
brious groan,  as  he  seated  himself  somewhat 
heavily  and  prepared  to  admire.  "Rippin' — 
simply  rippin'!" 

She  pretended  to  misunderstand  him  and  said : 
"Where,  oh,  where?"  in  mock  dismay,  and  made 
much  merriment  in  which  Dawes,  the  pleasant- 
faced  maid,  joined  discreetly.  In  their  different 
ways  both  Dawes  and  Sir  Arthur  thought  her  the 
most  beautiful  creature  in  the  world.  Each  felt 
a  certain  pride  of  possession,  too.  She  did  in- 
deed look  very  lovely,  her  eyes  and  cheeks  bright 
again  with  the  effort  she  was  making.  She  wore 
a  wonderful  shade  of  green,  which  set  off  her  fair- 
ness and  gave  it  depth;  around  her  head  was  a 


44        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

broad  band  of  gold,  turning  her  hair  to  bronze 
by  contrast. 

"I  thought  we  would  do  a  theater  after  din- 
ner," she  said  brightly,  "you  and  Ben  and  I; 
and  I  asked  Lady  Kitty,  too.  If  you  feel  like  it, 
we  might  go  on  to  the  Savoy  for  supper.  Hence 
this  regalia." 

"Very  well,"  said  Sir  Arthur  resignedly. 
When  pleasures  ran  late  he  was  apt  to  feel  his 
five-and-forty  years. 

She  laughed  at  him  sympathetically.  "Poor 
old  dear!"  she  said,  with  the  quick  little  pat  on 
the  coat-sleeve  which  seemed  to  be  her  one  form 
of  caress.  ' '  But  we  must  give  Ben  a  good  time. ' ' 

"Of  course,"  he  agreed.  "By  the  way,  May- 
sie,  I  liked  your  friend  very  much.  Odd  and 
original — and  shy — a  little,  isn't  he?  For 
Heaven's  sake,  teach  him  to  call  you  either  May 
or  Lady  Stanhope.  I  can't  stand  Lady  May!" 

"Oh,  he'll  get  used  to  May  in  time.  The  Lady 
preface  is  a  little  mark  of  respect  because  he 
hasn't  seen  me  for  eight  years.  It  is  difficult 
to  pick  up  a  friendship  after  all  that  time,  just 
where  you  left  off." 

"Yes,"  he  said  speculatively,  "it  is  often  easier 
to  make  a  new  one  with  a  stranger." 

She  flashed  him  a  quick  look,  wondering  if  any 
meaning  lay  under  the  words,  but  Sir  Arthur  was 
looking  out  of  the  window  and  apparently  did  not 
see. 


CHAPTER  III 

"How  you  have  known  her,  yet  not  known  her — " 

MARY  BURT  MASSER. 

THE  London  season  was  approaching  its 
height,  and  mid-June  found  Lady  Stan- 
hope already  longing  for  the  end  of  it. 
She  was  alternately  feverishly  gay,  or,  in  strong 
reaction,  utterly  worn  out.  She  kept  her  cal- 
endar full,  and  from  morning  to  night,  and  often 
from  night  to  morning  again,  went  a  gay  round 
of  pleasure.  Nothing  stopped  her  but  utter 
physical  exhaustion,  and  people  in  their  various 
ways  according  to  their  several  view-points  began 
to  comment. 

"You  have  a  wonderful  zest  for  life,  Mary," 
said  Lady  Kitty  languidly  and  half-enviously. 

"You'll  have  a  wonderful  zest  for  death,  if  you 
don't  let  up  a  little,"  said  the  Duchess  bluntly. 
The  Duke  looked  at  her  thoughtfully  one  evening 
when  she  and  Sir  Arthur  had  dined  with  them 
en  famille.  "What's  got  into  you,  child?"  he 
asked.  "You  are  going  a  bit  too  hard,  aren't 
you!  It  doesn't  pay,  you  know.  You  look  over- 
strained. ' ' 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  pathetically.  "Does 
it  matter?"  she  asked. 


46         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Of  course  it  does,"  said  the  Duke  sturdily. 
"Everything  matters."  He  regarded  her  nar- 
rowly for  a  moment.  "I  think  you  would  better 
get  away  from  town  into  the  country,  soon. 
Don't  you!" 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  won't  run  away." 

The  phrase  caught  his  attention.  Bun  awayt 
From  what,  he  wondered.  He  was  a  tactful  old 
gentleman,  and  he  forebore  to  question  further, 
but  it  started  a  speculation  in  his  mind. 

Carmichael  never  came  to  Whitehall  Gardens 
now.  Ben  noticed  it  and  was  glad.  He  guessed 
the  reason  and  quietly  pitied  them  both,  having 
once  known  love  himself — which  is  another  story. 
Sir  Arthur  was  absorbed  in  politics  and  the  press 
of  their  many  social  engagements  and  entertain- 
ments. One  day,  in  making  up  a  prospective  din- 
ner list,  he  suggested  to  his  wife:  "Ask  Carmi- 
chael; he  has  scarcely  been  here  at  all  of  late." 

"He  has  rather  neglected  us,  hasn't  he!"  she 
said  easily,  "and  to  punish  him  I  think  we  won't 
ask  him.  Let's  have  young  Mr.  Martyn-Dale  in- 
stead. Lady  Kitty  likes  him. ' ' 

"But  we'll  have  him,  too."  Not  wishing  to 
make  a  point  of  it,  Mary  acquiesced  reluctantly. 
Later,  her  husband  remembered  how  reluctantly, 
but  at  the  time  he  did  not  think  of  it.  She  need 
not  have  troubled  about  it,  however,  for  Carmi- 
chael replied,  regretting  a  previous  engagement. 
This,  perhaps,  was  the  first  thing  that  puzzled  Sir 
Arthur.  They  had  been  on  such  an  intimate, 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         47 

friendly  footing  that  ordinarily  Carmichael  would 
have  thrown  over  almost  any  engagement  for 
them,  and  his  apparent  indifference  rather  ir- 
ritated Sir  Arthur. 

" Silly  ass!"  he  said,  "his  head  is  probably 
quite  turned  by  all  the  flattery  he  has  been  get- 
ting lately.  I  thought  he  regarded  us  as  'his 
social  sponsors  and  was  properly  grateful.  I'm 
disappointed  in  him." 

She  was  silent. 

"Perhaps  he  has  fallen  in  love  and  is  spending 
all  his  time  with  some  woman,"  he  continued, 
dismissing  the  subject.  But  the  words  had  star- 
tled Mary,  and  her  husband  was  puzzled  by  the 
look  her  face  wore  before  she  turned  quickly 
away. 

The  dinner,  however,  passed  off  brilliantly. 
Lady  Stanhope  was  one  of  the  most  charming 
hostesses  in  London — trained,  tactful,  kind,  and 
buoyant.  Her  gay  spirits  always  infected  every 
one.  She  instinctively  found  the  very  best  that 
each  had  to  offer,  and  drew  it  out,  developed  it 
into  a  specialty,  and  made  the  happy  guest  feel 
that  never  before  had  any  one  quite  understood 
him.  Not  a  soul  realized  what  a  drain  it  all  was 
on  her ;  least  of  all  did  she  herself  realize  it.  Yet 
often,  when  the  day  was  over,  and  the  weary, 
pleasure-filled  night  also  had  nearly  passed  into 
another  day,  she  would  be  vaguely  conscious  of  a 
strong  ebb-tide  of  the  spirit. 

At  those  times  her  life  would  seem  to  her  just 


48         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

a  sandy  shore,  sterile,  unproductive,  and  terribly 
lonely.  And  the  farther  the  waters  of  her  spirit 
receded,  the  sharper  the  hard  facts  of  material 
things  stood  out — like  boulders  uncovered  by  the 
retreating  sea.  Her  heart  was  not  in  her  mar- 
riage ;  try  as  she  would,  spur  the  mental  energies 
and  starve  the  senses  as  she  would,  her  heart 
was  not  in  it.  She  did  not  dwell  upon  it  unduly, 
nor  descend  to  morbid  self-pity,  only  she  quietly 
knew  it  and  accepted  it.  If  only  there  had  been 
children,  little  children  to  yearn  over,  to  train  and 
teach,  and  spend  love  on — but  these  had  never 
come  to  them.  She  always  had  been  a  lonely 
person  with  an  interior  nature  utterly  untouched 
by  any  human  soul,  until  the  day  that  Philip 
Carmichael's  had  seemed  to  call  to  hers. 

Slowly  the  days  passed  into  mid-summer,  and 
each  one  seemed  to  take  from  Mary  some  of  her 
zest  of  life:  Health  and  spirits  began  to  fail. 
The  Duchess  was  full  of  motherly  scolding,  the 
Duke  of  kind  solicitude,  for  he  dearly  loved  his 
godchild.  "We  must  send  her  away  to  Switzer- 
land," he  said  to  Sir  Arthur,  who  listened 
gravely. 

"I  suggested  it,"  he  answered,  "but  she  won't 
hear  of  it,  says  she's  quite  all  right,  only  a  bit 
fagged  at  the  end  of  the  season."  The  Duke 
walked  restlessly  up  and  down  the  library  where 
they  were  talking,  before  he  asked  rather 
abruptly:  "Do  you  think  she's  fretting  about 
anything?" 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         49 

"Why,  what  should  she  fret  about?"  said  Sir 
Arthur.  ' '  She  has  everything. ' ' 

But  he  began  to  surmise.  They  did  not  live 
very  close  together,  he  and  she.  They  had 
separate  interests,  he  in  politics,  she  in  society. 
They  had  drifted,  as  people  so  often  do,  farther 
and  farther  apart,  allowing  outside  influences  and 
pursuits  to  encroach  more  and  more  on  the  domes- 
tic life.  He  wondered  sincerely  if  he  should  re- 
proach himself  for  neglecting  the  young  life  that 
had  been  given  to  him  to  protect  and  care  for,  but 
he  decided  that  he  need  not.  He  had  loved  her 
loyally,  and  any  withdrawal  from  close  associa- 
tion had  been  quite  as  much  on  her  side  as  on  his, 
and  was  really  unconscious  and  gradual  with  them 
both.  If  he  had  thought  of  it  at  all,  he  would 
have  thought  their  placid  relation  the  natural 
course  of  marriage  as  it  entered  the  years  that 
stretched  toward  middle  age.  Middle  age?  But 
Mary  was  only  eight-and-twenty ! 

He  began  to  watch  her  gravely,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  he  realized  something  of  the  strain 
she  was  enduring.  Very  little  things  began  to 
catch  his  attention:  a  word,  a  look,  upon  some 
political  discussion  wherein  Carmichael's  name 
came  up,  something  said,  would  awaken  an  in- 
voluntary interest,  instantly  suppressed  in  her. 
And  presently,  as  he  watched  Ms  wife,  he  knew 
how  it  was  with  her.  He  could  not  have  told  how 
he  knew,  but  the  knowledge  was  absolute. 

He  had  been  accustomed  to  take  life  easily,  its 


50        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

blessings  for  granted,  its  trials  with  stoicism,  and 
in  a  quite  primitive  sort  of  way,  he  resented  the 
havoc  made  with  his  peace  of  mind  by  his  new 
discovery.  Of  all  women,  Mary!  Mary,  so 
above  all  sorts  of  frailties  common  to  the  rest 
of  her  sex,  so  superior  to  any  sort  of  sin,  so  al- 
most virginal  in  the  stainless  character  of  her 
womanhood — Mary,  to  have  a  temptation  of  this 
sort  even  in  thought,  to  have  given  it  any  power 
over  her — Mary,  to  have  to  struggle  against  a 
mortal  sin!  Sir  Arthur  did  not  mince  words  to 
himself  as  he  thought  about  it.  He  had  an  old- 
fashioned  way  of  calling  things  by  their  true,  ugly 
names.  Faugh!  His  idol  was  defiled!  Yet  he 
hated  himself  for  the  thought. 

That  was  the  first  stage.  Then,  by  slow  de- 
grees, as  their  life  went  on  in  its  accustomed 
ways,  apparently  without  any  stir  under  the 
smooth  surface,  a  different  spirit  entered  into 
his  judgment  of  her.  He  saw  her  struggle  and 
win  over  herself,  saw  every  vagrant  mood  sub- 
dued, saw  her  give  herself  in  a  thousand  ways  to 
all  who  asked  anything  of  her,  felt  the  utter 
sweetness  of  many  little  services,  and  guessed  that 
they  were  the  penance  for  hours  when  her  spirit 
had  been  vanquished.  It  gained  his  slow,  unwill- 
ing admiration  finally  that  she  was  able  to  put  by 
the  greatest  thing  in  life.  The  greatest  thing? 
No.  There  must  be  Something  even  greater, 
which  enabled  her  to  put  it  by.  He  was  not  a 
spiritual  man  in  any  sense,  but  he  began  dimly  to 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         51 

perceive  the  reaches  of  her  climbing  soul.  And 
when  he  did  perceive  it,  there  came  into  his 
thought  of  her  a  great  admiration,  a  new  honor. 

At  the  same  time,  she  seemed,  in  some  indefi- 
nable way,  not  to  belong  to  him  any  more.  She 
was  his  wife  by  book  and  bond,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  in  the  sight  of  God,  but  something  had 
broken  the  mystic  tie  that  held  them.  "What 
God  hath  joined  together,"  he  thought,  and  then 
began  to  wonder  if  it  really  had  been  God  who 
joined  them  together.  Had  it  not  been  really  the 
will  of  the  world  to  which  they  both  belonged, 
the  comfortable  convention  of  their  time?  Sir 
Arthur  had  always  stoutly  declared:  "Things 
are  not  right  because  they  are  conventional ;  they 
are  conventional  because  they  are  right."  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  his  faith  in  all  the  rules 
he  lived  by  was  shaken.  What  if  there  were 
something  beyond  and  above  rules — and  that 
something  the  voice  of  God — speaking  through 
pure  nature  to  the  heart? 

He  knew  that  her  nature  was  pure.  There  was 
the  essence  of  the  primitive  woman  in  her.  Under 
all  the  divisions  and  subdivisions  of  character 
lay  the  nature  of  woman  as  divinely  planned. 
In  a  dim  sort  of  way  he  recognized  this,  and  also 
the  fact  that  this  was  the  thing  that  he  had  never 
possessed  in  her.  However  she  accepted  the  posi- 
tion he  had  given  her,  however  she  had  fulfilled 
his  demands  of  one  sort  or  another,  however  she 
had  submitted  her  will  to  his,  yet,  back  of  it  all 


52        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

was  the  woman  herself,  never  wholly  given  to 
him  nor  to  any  man.  These  thoughts  irritated 
Sir  Arthur.  His  was  not  the  type  of  mind  that 
delights  in  speculation  on  the  subtleties  of  the 
inner  being.  Philip  Carmichael  might  delight  in 
expanding  the  personality  in  imagination,  in  con- 
tracting it  in  facts,  but  Sir  Arthur  was  of  an- 
other temper.  He  faced  things  squarely.  He 
reasoned  clearly,  and  he  reached  his  conclusions 
by  direct  routes  always.  Once  reached,  his  deci- 
sions were  unalterable ;  to  a  temperament  like  that, 
the  suspensive  condition  of  thought  and  action 
which  precedes  decision  was  well-nigh  unbearable. 
It  could  not  last  long.  The  strain  was  too  great, 
for  as  usual,  the  mental  state  had  its  effect  upon 
the  physical.  As  his  way  was,  he  said  little  about 
it,  however,  and  in  the  general  friendly  concern 
over  Lady  Stanhope's  more  obvious  lack  of 
strength,  his  own  need  passed  unnoticed. 

Things  were  in  this  unsettled  state  at  the  time 
of  the  Duchess'  ball  which  she  was  giving  for  her 
niece,  Lady  Kitty  Carew.  Lady  Kitty,  whose 
husband  had  died  in  India  some  two  years  before, 
had  just  begun  to  go  into  society  again,  and  the 
dance  was  to  be  a  welcome  home  to  her,  and  one 
of  the  last  big  events  of  the  season.  Lady  Kitty 
had  taken  a  great  liking  to  Ben  Baldwin,  and  they 
were  often  seen  about  together,  looking  rather 
like  a  big  mastiff  and  a  small  kitten. 

1  'He's  such  a  man,"  she  said  one  day  to  Mary 
Stanhope,  when  lunching  alone  with  her.  "He 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         53 

makes  all  the  others  seem — merely  gentlemen!" 

"But  he's  that  himself,"  Mary  answered, 
laughing  at  the  little  widow's  way  of  putting 
it. 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Kitty  somewhat  doubtfully, 
and  a  little  disappointedly,  "but  if  he  is,  he's 
more  original  than  most — a  different  sort,  don't 
you  think?  He's  so  big!  When  I  look  at  him, 
he  reminds  me  of  the  houses  of  Parliament  and 
Big  Ben — and  in  my  mind  that's  what  I've 
christened  him." 

"Kitty,"  said  Mary  sternly,  "I  forbid  you  to 
go  making  Ben  fall  in  love  with  you.  I  simply 
won't  have  his  heart  broken  by  any  such  mis- 
chievous, fickle,  whimsical — " 

"Pile  it  on,"  said  Lady  Kitty  resignedly. 

"Little  flirt  as  you — so  there!" 

"You  don't  happen  to  be  in  love  with  him  your- 
self, do  you?"  asked  the  astute  little  widow. 

"No — of  course  not." 

"Of  course  not!"  echoed  Lady  Kitty.  "But 
speaking  of  breaking  hearts,  etc.,  what  have  you 
been  doing  to  Philip  Carmichael?  He  is  a 
changed  man — used  to  be  as  gay  and  genial  as  a 
May  morning.  I  could  have  loved  him  myself— 
and  now  he  is  a  grumpy-tempered,  irascible  being, 
and  all  because  you — " 

"Kitty,"  said  Mary,  rising  suddenly,  "don't 
be—" 

"An  ass,"  finished  Lady  Kitty.  "Well,  I 
won't."  But  inwardly  she  thought:  "Ah — ah, 


54         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

so  it  is  rather  serious — 'm — poor  dears !"  Aloud, 
she  continued:  "Well,  I  want  you  to  look  your 
loveliest  at  my  party,  and  that  is  very  lovely,  in- 
deed. What  are  you  wearing?" 

"Rose  color — Doucet — would  you  like  to  see  it? 
It  has  just  come  home,"  and  chatting  of  purely 
feminine  interests,  they  went  up-stairs  together. 
Dawes  was  putting  away  some  medicine  bottles 
in  Sir  Arthur's  dressing-room,  as  they  passed 
through  on  their  way  to  Mary's  boudoir. 

"What  have  you  there,  Dawes?"  Mary  asked, 
and  as  the  woman  hesitated,  she  took  the  bottle 
from  her.  "Why,  it  is  ammonia!  Has  Sir 
Arthur  had  one  of  his  attacks?" 

"Well — my  lady — Dickinson  said  as  how  Sir 
Arthur  had  rather  a  bad  turn  thisjnorning,  but 
that  he  left  orders  you  were  not  to  be  worried 
with  it.  I  don't  think  it's  serious,  'm,  as  he's 
gone  for  a  drive." 

"Of  course  it  isn't  serious,"  said  Lady  Kitty 
reassuringly,  seeing  the  trouble  in  Mary's  face. 
"Men  always  exaggerate  things  so ;  think  they  are 
dying  if  they  have  a  little  finger-ache.  He's 
probably  over-smoked  and  under-exercised." 

"That  is  possible,"  Mary  answered.  "Still,  if 
we  shouldn't  turn  up  to-morrow  at  the  dance — 
but  I'll  telephone  you  in  the  morning." 

But  in  the  morning  Sir  Arthur  was  apparently 
"as  right  as  rain,"  as  he  said  himself,  and  really 
more  genial  and  like  himself  than  he  had  been 
for  some  time.  His  wife  noted  this  with  relief 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         55 

and  straightway  forgot  the  whole  incident.  They 
called  back  and  forth  at  intervals  through  the 
connecting  rooms,  as  they  dressed  for  the  dance, 
and  in  the  gay  naturalness  of  it,  they  forgot  for 
a  while  the  impalpable  thing  that  hung  between 
them.  He  was  grumbling  and  lugubrious  at  hav- 
ing to  go  at  all,  and  she  laughed  at  him  and 
teased  him  for  his  "  premature  senile  depres- 
sion," which,  as  Dawes  said  to  Dickinson  after 
they  had  gone,  "was  some  langwidge  for  her 
Ladyship  to  use." 

But  Mary  was  full  of  an  odd,  inward  excite- 
ment, an  unusual  sense  of  youth  and  exhilaration 
which  sent  a  splendid  color  into  her  face,  and  made 
her  eyes  shine  like  blue  pools  of  light.  Dawes 
wound  her  pale  brown  hair  around  her  head  in 
such  a  way  as  to  reveal  its  contour,  and  its  lifted, 
graceful  carriage.  And  when  the  rose-colored 
gown  was  slipped  over  her  shoulders  and  she  stood 
arrayed  in  it,  she  was,  and  knew  herself  to  be, 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  creatures  of  her  day. 
She  was  too  simple-hearted  and  unselfconscious 
to  be  vain  of  it;  she  simply  acknowledged  it  one 
moment  and  forgot  it  the  next.  Sir  Arthur  ac- 
knowledged it,  too,  mentally,  with  a  twinge  of  the 
heart  almost  like  envy,  for  he  knew  he  possessed 
only  the  vision  of  her.  But  aloud  he  merely  said : 
"You  look  very  nice,  my  dear,  but  we'll  be  the 
last  arrivals  if  you  prink  any  more." 

They  were  rather  silent  on  the  drive  over;  he 
worked  methodically  at  his  problem,  not  having 


56         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

reached  its  solution;  she  still  had  that  odd  sense 
of  excitement,  as  of  Destiny  rushing  to  meet  her. 
So  definite  the  feeling  was  that  it  made  a  picture  in 
her  mind.  She  seemed  to  see  a  wave  of  the  ocean 
gathering  far,  far  out — gathering,  growing,  ap- 
proaching, resistless.  Then  suddenly  she  seemed 
to  be  in  the  ocean — going  out  to  meet  that  wave. 
That  was  Destiny.  Would  it  carry  her  on  its 
friendly  crest,  high  and  safe,  to  the  shore!  or 
would  it —  She  turned  away  from  the  mental  pic- 
ture of  the  great  roller,  for  as  it  curved  to  break, 
its  comb  seemed  like  strong  and  cruel  teeth. 

"My  dear,  you're  shivering;  are  you  quite  sure 
that  wrap  is  enough?"  asked  her  husband's  kind, 
practical  voice  at  her  side.  She  had  a  sudden 
longing  for  human  sympathy,  for  the  touch  of 
loving  arms  about  her,  to  still  the  nervous  excite- 
ment from  which  she  was  suffering,  to  banish  the 
abstractions  of  her  mind  in  warm,  concrete  real- 
ity. She  half -turned  to  her  husband,  wishing  he 
might  guess,  but  Sir  Arthur  sat  quietly  in  his 
corner^; jwith  nothing  in  his  eyes  beyond  a  polite 
solicitude  for  her  comfort.  So  the  moment  passed 
—the  little  moment  that  might  have  meant  so 
much  to  them — and  then  she  said  lightly:  "I 
shall  soon  be  warm — dancing. ' ' 

"The  first  for  me  as  usual?"  he  said. 

"Why,  of  course." 

They  were  regarded  as  quite  a  model,  old- 
fashioned  couple  for  that.  They  always  kept  the 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE        57 

first  dance  for  each  other,  and  then  perhaps  did 
not  meet  again  till  the  end  of  the  evening. 

Lady  Kitty,  receiving  the  guests  with  her  aunt 
and  uncle,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Northerland, 
was  a  radiant  and  vivacious  little  figure.  She 
gave  a  joyous  exclamation  as  she  caught  sight  of 
Sir  Arthur  and  Lady  Stanhope. 

"I'm  so  glad,"  she  said,  "you  are  better  then, 
Sir  Arthur?  Mary — Mary — what  a  vision  you 
are!  You  positively  outshine  the  Stanhope  dia- 
monds !  Here's  Mr.  Baldwin.  I  don't  let  him  get 
far  from  me,  for  fear,  you  see — oh,  Mr.  Car- 
michael!" 

It  was  inevitable,  of  course.  They  were  bound 
to  meet  sometime.  Mary  turned,  quelling  a  sud- 
den faintness,  to  smile  languidly.  They  shook 
hands  with  the  usual  conventional  greetings.  She 
immediately  included  Ben  in  their  little  group  and 
they  moved  apart.  Both  asked  for  her  card,  and 
both  wrote  their  names  against  certain  dances. 

"Why,  you  aren't  engaged  at  all!"  said  Car- 
michael. 

"Only  for  the  first." 

"And  the  last,"  he  replied,  writing  P.  C. 
against  it,  "and  the  middle." 

"That's  supper—" 

"Yes,  I  know;  that's  why!"  His  eyes  chal- 
lenged her. 

"Here — whoa — where  do  I  come  in?"  said  Ben, 
taking  the  card  from  him. 


58    THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"And  I,  Lady  Stanhope?"  said  young  Mr. 
Martyn-Dale,  joining  them. 

She  was  soon  surrounded.  Keaction  from  the 
momentary  faintness  sent  the  blood  flowing  faster 
through  her  body.  The  nervous  excitement 
caught  her  up  again.  The  heads  which  turned, 
the  half -caught  whispers  of  admiration  which  fol- 
lowed her,  intoxicated  her.  She  gave  herself  up 
to  the  spirit  of  the  dance,  flinging  off  the  restraint 
of  the  last  few  weeks,  and  yielding  her  mood 
freely  to  the  gay  irresponsibility  of  the  hour. 
The  Duke's  eyes  followed  her  with  pride. 
''That's  better,"  he  thought.  "More  like  her 
old  self."  Aloud,  he  said  to  the  Duchess: 
"Mary  is  wonderful  to-night,  isn't  she!" 

"She'll  do,"  said  the  Duchess,  which  was  high 
praise  for  her.  "Who's  she  dancing  with,  now?" 

"Why,  it's — it's — bless  me — His  Highness, 
Prince " 

"Most  disreputable  man  in  Europe,"  said  the 
Duchess,  with  prompt  disgust.  "Kitty,  what 
d'you  ever  have  him  for?" 

"Dances  divinely,"  retorted  Lady  Kitty. 

"Huh!"  said  the  Duchess.  She  put  up  her 
glass  to  survey  the  scene,  truly  a  brilliant  one. 
An  ambassador  or  two,  statesmen,  diplomats, 
some  of  the  oldest  nobility  in  England,  beautiful 
women  of  several  nationalities ;  the  Duchess,  look- 
ing down  a  diminishing  vista  of  years  of  worldly 
success,  approved  it  all.  Mary  flashed  by  and 
smiled  radiantly  as  she  caught  her  eye. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         59 

"Most  beautiful  creature  in  the  room,"  said  the 
Duchess  with  conviction. 

"And  a  great  spirit,"  the  Duke  answered 
thoughtfully. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"Some  star-lit  garden  grey  with  dew, 
Some  chamber  flushed  with  wine  and  fire, 
What  matters  where — so  I  and  you 
Are  worthy  our  desire?" 

MINE."  Philip  Cannichael  was  claiming 
his  dance. 
"Yours.'*  She  surrendered  herself 
to  his  arms  and  the  measure,  and  in  a  second  was 
transported  to  another  world.  They  seemed  to 
be  floating  far  out  into  the  night,  over  wet 
meadows,  faintly  moon-lit,  past  sweet-smelling 
hedges,  down  dim  roads,  through  a  wonderful, 
empty  world.  She  and  the  intimate  companion- 
spirit  were  alone  in  it,  dancing  down  the  night 
and  up  the  dawn  together.  Neither  spoke.  The 
communion  of  their  silence  beggared  words. 

The  chime  of  a  clock  striking  twelve  somewhere 
could  be  heard  through  the  music,  and  the  room 
began  to  thin  out,  as  the  hungry  couples  found 
their  way  to  supper.  Yet  still  the  rhythm  of  the 
music  and  the  delirium  of  the  movement  carried 
them  on  its  resistless  tide.  When  they  finally 
stopped,  they  were  near  a  flower-filled  alcove 
which  led  on  to  a  balcony  overlooking  the  strip 
of  lawn  and  shrubs  sweet  with  the  June  night. 
She  came  out  of  her  dream  to  find  herself  alone 


She  gave  him  kiss  for  kiss, 
again  and  yet  again.     Page  61 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         61 

with  the  man  she  loved.  He  drew  her  behind  a 
screen  of  leaves  and  flowers,  and  they  looked  each 
other  in  the  eyes  for  a  moment.  Then,  as  she 
swayed  under  his  glance,  he  folded  her  in  his  em- 
brace, his  eager,  seeking  lips  leaving  kisses  on 
neck  and  face  and  resting  finally  in  ecstasy  upon 
her  mouth. 

And  she  gave  him  kiss  for  kiss,  again  and  yet 
again.  It  was  the  primitive  instinct,  the  delight 
and  desire  of  creature  for  creature,  and  so  truly 
natural  that  for  the  first  few  seconds  no  thought, 
no  scruple,  obtruded  upon  the  consciousness  of 
either.  Only  for  a  moment,  however,  and  then, 
with  a  long  sobbing  breath  of  realization,  Mary 
Stanhope  released  herself  and  turned  her  face 
away  toward  the  night. 

And  still  they  had  not  spoken  a  word.  With 
Carmichael  thought  was  blurred  in  emotion;  his 
ready  speech  was  stilled  in  reverence  for  her. 
She  had  given  herself  into  his  arms,  had  lain 
against  his  heart  with  an  abandon  so  passionate 
and  profound  that  it  stirred  in  him  something 
like  awe,  near  to  worship.  Her  trust  in  him 
troubled  his  sense  of  chivalry,  but  his  longing 
for  her  overrode  all.  It  was  he  who  broke  the 
silence  with  a  whisper  through  the  darkness  of 
the  balcony. 

"My  love!" 

And  her  whisper  answered:  "Oh,  Philip, 
what  have  we  done?" 

"What  we  shall  do  again — and  again.    You 


62         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

are  mine,  you  must  be  mine;  don't  you  feel  it, 
know  it?" 

She  shuddered  away  from  him.  "Don't,  oh, 
don't!  I  dare  not." 

"Dare  not?"  he  said,  with  a  ring  of  scorn  in 
his  voice.  "Dare  not  live?  This  is  life  that  has 
come  to  us  both — for  love  is  life.  Here  is  the  cup 
of  joy  at  our  lips!  Mary,  my  dear,  my  sweet, 
what  is  the  fear  that  keeps  you  from  drinking 
deep  of  it — with  me?" 

*  *  The  fear  of  myself, ' '  she  whispered,  ' '  because 
of  what  I  should  think — afterward." 

1  'After  what?" 

"After—  '  she  faltered  at  the  words  and  then, 
with  her  crystal  honesty,  forced  herself  to  say 
them,  "after  I  had  given  myself  to  you  irrev- 
ocably. For  it  would  be  irrevocable  with  me, 
Philip.  I  know  there  are  people — men  and 
women  like  us — who  love  lightly  and  change 
easily.  But  my  love  is  made  of  sterner  stuff. 
I've  never  known  it  before.  It  never  will  change. 
It's  yours — for  keeps." 

"My  darling — my  darling!  Then  don't  you 
see  there  would  not  be  any  afterward  for  us? 
Why  torture  yourself  with  these  misgivings? 
May,  my  beautiful  May,  give  me  yourself;  we 
have  only  this  little  present.  I  was  defrauded  of 
the  past." 

"But  in  the  future— if— " 

"Oh,  dearest,  what  do  you  fear  in  the  future? 
When  two  people  care  as  we  care,  it  makes  the 


63 

future — it  makes  the  world.     Remember  the  little 
poem  we  read  together  once : 

"  'What  matters  where,  so  I  and  you 
Are  worthy  our  desire?' 

Let's  be  worthy  our  desire.    Promise!" 

He  had  taken  both  her  hands  in  his.  All  the 
influences  of  the  time  and  hour  were  on  his  side. 
From  the  strip  of  garden  below  came  the  cheep 
of  sleepy  insects,  stirring  in  the  grass,  and 
through  the  branches  of  the  tall  old  elm  that 
leaned  over  the  balcony  a  friendly  star  showed. 
Leaf  shadows  fell  in  lacey  patterns  at  their  feet, 
and  all  the  sweetness  of  a  June-thrilled  world 
stirred  them.  But  her  other  nature  was  awake 
now  and  fighting  valiantly. 

"Promise!"  he  repeated. 

"Philip — it  isn't  that  I  fear  your  love  would 
fail,  or — "  she  was  thinking  aloud,  and  the  words 
came  slowly,  every  one  with  weight,  " — or  not 
be  enough  for  me.  It  is  myself  I  fear,  my  self- 
abasement:  to  give  all — position — honor — myself 
— into  your  hands;  to  come  to  you — not  happily, 
not  freely  and  gloriously,  but  stained  with  scan- 
dal, bedraggled  by  every  common  tongue,  cen- 
sured by  all,  and  even  pitied  by  a  few — no,  oh, 
no !  I  could  not  bear  it ;  it  would  drag  you  down, 
too." 

"Sweetheart,  none  of  these  things  need  be. 
Since  you  feel  like  that,  I  can't  ask  such  a  sacri- 
fice from  you.  I  won't  ask  you  to  change  your 


64    THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

life.    I  only  ask  you  to  love  me,  to  let  me  love 
you  secretly — happily — " 

She  drew  back  sharply.  "I  don't  understand! 
You  don't  want  me  to — to  go  away  with  you? 
You  want — " 

"I  want  you — you,  close  in  my  arms,  but  I 
daren't  ask  you  to  sacrifice  yourself — your  posi- 
tion— for  me." 

"I  see,"  she  said  slowly  and  with  difficulty, 
''you  only  ask  me  to  sacrifice  my  honor — to  lead 
a  double  life — to  be  true  to  no  one,  not  even  my- 
self— is  that  it  ?" 

"Understand!"  he  said  almost  sternly,  as  he 
took  her  strongly  by  the  shoulders.  "Under- 
stand, it  is  for  your  sake,  not  for  mine.  I  let 
nothing  weigh  against  my  love  for  you;  I  mean, 
you  are  worth  everything  to  me — do  you  see! 
But  I'm  a  man,  and  no  woman  can  afford  to  pay 
such  a  price;  and  no  man  is  worth  it.  And,  oh, 
my  sweet,"  he  took  her  face  gently  between  his 
hands  and  turned  it  up  to  the  starlight,  "won't 
it  be  the  more  sacred,  the  more  precious  for 
the  secrecy?  I  will  kiss  away  the  conscience. 
May — May,  my  love — when  will  you  come  to 
me?" 

She  released  herself  gently.    "Never." 

"May?" 

"Never.  Phil,  it  has  been  a  terrible  tempta- 
tion, but  I  can't  do  it.  I  must  give  you  up — go 
on  without  you. ' ' 

'But,"  he  said  very  tenderly,  "go  on  to  what? 


<  i  • 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE        65 

You  must  look  it  in  the  face,  Mary.  Will  you  go 
on  to  a  bleak,  barren,  loveless  round  of  years,  to 
a  perfunctory  existence,  to  all  the  hideous,  duti- 
ful, commonplace  things  that  you  call  morality? 
You !  You,  with  your  wealth  of  heart  and  brain ! 
May,  don't  you  see  you  are  wasting  the  good  gift 
of  life?  Don't  you  see  you  are  leaving  out  the 
best  thing,  the  only  thing  that  makes  it  all  worth 
while?" 

"Yes,  I  see." 

"Then  why,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  happy, 
do  you  delay?  But  I  can't  argue  any  more. 
Here  are  a  man's  arms,  a  man's  worship,  a  man 
in  need  of  you — your  inspiration,  your  help. 
Give  them  to  me ;  give  me  yourself. ' ' 

She  turned  away  from  the  balcony  to  the  ball- 
room. He  followed  and  put  his  arms  about  her, 
as  they  stood  in  the  alcove. 

"Say  'yes,'  Mary." 

"I  can't,  Philip.  I  can't  argue  any  more, 
either.  But  I  know,  I  know,  I  can  never  be  that 
to  you." 

"But  why— why— '" 

' '  Because  it  would  be  a  sin —    Hush ! ' ' 

Some  one  was  approaching  their  retreat,  and 
as  they  emerged  into  the  light  of  the  outer  room, 
the  Duke's  kind  voice  said  briskly:  "Oh,  there 
you  are,  my  dear.  I  was  looking  for  you.  I  have 
a  message.  Your  husband  said  he  hoped  you 
wouldn't  mind,  but  he  has  gone  on  home.  He 
wasn't  feeling  very  well,  so — " 


66        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Oh,"  she  said,  a  sudden  panic  seizing  her, 
"is  he  ill!" 

"No,  no,"  he  answered  soothingly.  "He 
looked  quite  well,  but  said  you  would  understand, 
and  that  it  was  better  for  him  to  keep  quiet.  He 
often  has  these  turns,  doesn't  he?" 

"Oh,  now  and  again." 

"Well,  there's  nothing  to  worry  about,  then," 
said  the  Duke  kindly.  "He  particularly  said  so 
— and  that  you  were  not  to  hurry  away.  May 
I — "  he  hesitated  a  moment,  glancing  from  her 
to  Carmichael,  "may  I  get  you  some  supper!" 

"No,  I  think  I'll  go  to  him  at  once,"  Mary 
answered.  "Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  order  my 
carriage?"  She  turned  to  Carmichael. 

"Certainly,"  he  answered.  "I  will  take  you 
home. ' ' 

"If  you  really  feel  you  must  go,"  said  the  Duke 
gravely. 

"Oh,  yes!"    She  was  almost  feverish. 

"Then  let  me  see  about  getting  your  wraps." 
He  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm  protectingly, 
and  they  walked  across  the  empty  ballroom  in 
silence.  She  was  so  preoccupied  that  she  did  not 
even  notice  the  silence.  The  Duke  looked  straight 
ahead  of  him,  frowning  a  little.  At  the  door  of 
the  cloak-room  he  laid  his  hand  for  a  moment 
over  hers,  and  she  smiled  up  at  him  affectionately. 
The  smile  vanished  under  his  grave,  stern  look. 

"Mary,"  he  said  quietly,  "Sir  Arthur  passed 
the  alcove  where  you  were — a  few  minutes  before 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE        67 

— I  was  with  him. ' '  And  in  pity,  he  turned  away 
from  the  sight  of  the  tide  of  feeling  that  swept 
over  her.  Face  and  throat  and  bosom  were  dyed 
with  it.  Without  a  word,  she  left  him.  When 
she  came  down,  a  few  moments  later,  scarf  and 
cloak  drawn  close  about  her,  the  Duke  and  Car- 
michael,  talking  easily  and  lightly  together,  were 
waiting  in  the  hall.  Groups  of  people  coming  in 
from  the  supper-room  were  passing.  She  slipped 
past  them  quickly  to  the  door,  hoping  to  pass 
unnoticed,  for  it  was  early,  and  no  one  had  left  as 
yet. 

1  'Good  night,"  said  the  Duke,  in  his  most  genial 
and  spacious  manner.  "I'll  make  your  adieux 
to  Kitty.  Too  bad — too  bad.  But  I  think  you'll 
find  he  will  be  better  in  the  morning."  He 
pressed  her  hand  gently.  "Good  night,  my 
dear. ' ' 

She  looked  past  him — not  at  him.  "Thank 
you,"  she  said  mutely,  her  lips  just  moving. 

In  the  carriage  with  Carmichael  there  came  to 
her  again,  as  it  had  come  before  when  with  her 
husband,  that  vision  of  the  long,  green  swell — 
the  ninth  wave — and  as  it  curved  to  break,  its 
comb  was  like  cruel,  tearing  teeth.  Only  this 
time  as  she  shuddered  away  from  it,  she  felt  a 
warm  magnetism  beside  her. 

"Dear— what  is  it?" 

"Nothing;  only  I  am  fanciful — and — afraid." 

"Of  what?" 

"I  hardly  know.    It's  intangible.    It's  as  if  I 


68        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

were  afraid  of  the  dark,  just  because  it  is  dark, 
and  I  can't  see — or  feel — ahead."  They  were 
silent  during  the  rest  of  the  short  drive. 

When  they  reached  the  house,  Carmichael  said 
quietly:  "I  would  like  to  inquire  how  Sir  Ar- 
thur is. '  * 

"If  you'll  wait,  I'll  send  you  down  word. 
Good  night." 

He  took  her  hand.    "Good  night." 

Turnbull,  the  butler,  left  him  in  the  drawing- 
room  after  switching  on  the  electric  light,  and 
followed  his  mistress  up-stairs.  He  returned 
shortly  with  the  message  that  Sir  Arthur  was 
resting  comfortably  and  thanked  Mr.  Carmichael 
for  his  inquiry.  He  would  also  like  to  ask  Mr. 
Carmichael  to  be  kind  enough  to  stop  on  his  way 
to  the  House  to-morrow  afternoon,  as  there  might 
be  some  message  which  Sir  Arthur  would  like  to 
send,  in  case  he  was  not  able  to  go. 

Carmichael  replied  that  he  would  call  im- 
mediately after  luncheon  and  left  the  house. 


CHAPTER  V 

"For  wholly  as  it  was,  your  life 
Can  never  be  again, 
My  dear, — 
Can  never  be  again" 

W.  E.  HENLEY. 

GOME  in,"  said  Sir  Arthur,  in  answer  to 
his  wife's  knock. 
She  entered,  still  in  her  cloak  and  scarf, 
as  she  had  come  from  the  ball.    Just  inside  the 
door  she  paused  in  surprise.    Her  husband  was 
still  in  immaculate  evening  dress,  leaning  against 
the  mantel  and  smoking  quietly. 

"I  thought  you  were  ill!  You  left  a  message 
which  quite  frightened  me,  and  I  came  on  at 
once. ' ' 

1  i  I  am  sorry  it  frightened  you. ' ' 

"But  the  Duke  said — that  you  had  had — quite 
a  bad  turn."  She  spoke  in  nervous  little  jerks, 
beginning  to  unbutton  her  cloak. 

"So  I  had — quite  a  bad  turn."  He  looked  at 
her  gravely,  and  she  caught  his  meaning  and 
straightened  instinctively.  The  gesture,  uncon- 
scious though  it  was,  hurt  him.  It  was  as  if  she 
expected  him  to  strike  her  and  stood  braced  for 
it. 

"You  look  like   a  tragic  Madonna  with  that 


70        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

scarf  around  your  head,"  he  said  lightly.  "Sup- 
pose you  go  and  take  it  off  and  make  yourself 
comfortable — and  then  come  back  and  talk  to  me 
a  few  minutes.  There  are  things  I  need  to  say 
to  you." 

"Are  you  sure,"  she  said  in  a  very  low  voice 
and  without  moving,  "that  you  had  better  say 
them?" 

"Quite  sure." 

"Very  well."  She  turned  away  and  passed 
out. 

Sir  Arthur  remained  standing  by  the  mantel, 
smoking  quietly.  A  curious  sort  of  peace,  a  sense 
of  finality  settled  upon  him.  His  suspense  was 
over.  He  knew  what  he  meant  to  do.  The 
doubt,  the  uncertainty,  the  perplexity  of  the  last 
few  weeks  vanished  completely,  and  his  purpose 
stood  out  strong  and  clear  against  the  back- 
ground of  foreboding  thoughts.  Where  the  pur- 
pose would  lead,  and  what  its  effects  would  be  on 
their  lives  he  could  not  foresee,  but  the  purpose 
itself  was  plain.  It  was  definite,  strong,  un- 
changeable as  fate,  and  the  relief  of  decision  was 
so  great  to  his  methodical  mind  that  he  did  not 
stop  to  calculate  results.  It  had  come  to  him  all 
in  a  moment.  There  had  been,  first,  the  stunned 
realization  of  the  situation  in  the  alcove — and 
that  the  Duke  shared  his  unwilling  knowledge  of 
it;  then  the  strangest  feeling  in  his  head,  as  if 
every  drop  of  blood  were  beating  and  hammering 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE        71 

the  detestable  truth  in  upon  his  brain,  as  if 
every  nerve  were  shrieking  the  secret  to  the 
world  at  large.  The  pressure  of  it  had  been 
agony  for  a  moment  or  more — he  had  not  realized 
how  long  it  was — but  when  it  had  passed,  he  found 
himself  alone  with  the  Duke,  who  forced  upon  him 
a  stiff  drink  and  talked  the  while  of  indifferent 
things.  And  Sir  Arthur  hajd  made  a  strange 
sound — was  it  a  laugh? — and  had  turned  the 
whole  thing  off  as  one  of  his  not  unusual  "at- 
tacks." Both  men  had  lied  valiantly,  and  each 
knew  that  the  other  was  lying,  but  that  was  the 
convention  of  their  class,  the  homage  paid  to  the 
goddess  of  propriety.  Sir  Arthur  had  left  at 
once,  and  in  a  moment,  as  soon  as  he  was  alone 
in  the  carriage,  his  purpose  leaped  up  in  his 
mind.  It  was  not  supported  by  any  plan  as  yet, 
but  that  would  come  later.  Meantime  he  smoked 
and  waited  for  his  wife. 

She  was  not  gone  long.  She  came  in,  as  she 
had  often  come  before,  in  boudoir  gown  and 
slippers,  with  loosely  plaited  hair,  for  a  good 
night  chat.  But  the  difference  between  this  one 
and  all  the  others  that  had  preceded  it  must  have 
struck  them  both.  She  remained  standing, 
though  Sir  Arthur  pushed  forward  a  chair  for 
her. 

"No,"  she  said,  "let's  get  it  over.  I  know 
something  of  what  you  have  to  say." 

"Do  you?"  said  Sir  Arthur,  with  an  inscm- 


72        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

table  smile.  "I  hardly  think  so;  and  as  it  may 
take  me  some  time  to  say  it,  don't  you  think  you 
had  better  sit  down! " 

She  obeyed  in  silence. 

11  That's  right,"  he  continued.  "Now,  what- 
ever happens,  let  us  talk  sensibly  and  quietly. 
There  is  no  need  for  either  of  us  to  become  agi- 
tated. I've  been  thinking  for  some  time,  Mary, 
that  things  can't  go  on  as  they  are." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"You  know,"  he  answered  significantly. 
"You  are  surely  not  going  to  pretend  that  you 
don't  care  for  him?" 

"I  don't  pretend  it." 

"Then  you  see  how  impossible  the  situation 
is." 

"I  don't  see  how  it  is  to  be  helped." 

"Well,  I  see.    Our  divorce  might  help  it." 

She  sprang  up  in  amazement. 

"Arthur!  You  can't  mean  it!  Why,  it's— it's 
monstrous — it's  impossible!  There's  nothing — I 
mean — there's  no  reason — you  couldn't — oh!" 
She  turned  away,  words  choking  in  her  throat. 

He  looked  at  her  once,  and  the  look  was  per- 
fectly friendly  and  kind,  but  his  purpose  remained 
unshaken  by  her  outburst. 

Suddenly  she  turned  and  faced  him. 

"What  did  you  see — or  hear — to-night?" 

"I  saw  you  go  in  together,  and  when  I  passed 
there  with  the  Duke,  on  our  way  to  the  supper- 
room,  I  heard — silence,  and  I — knew." 


"  You  know,''  he  answered  significantly.     Page  72. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE        73 

The  words  cut  her  like  a  whip-lash.  So  then, 
even  that  moment,  that  supreme  moment  of  her 
life,  which  only  to  remember  was  to  recreate, 
even  that  brief  Eden  moment  had  not  been  with- 
out its  serpent  of  suspicion.  Her  whole  soul  re- 
belled against  the  thought  that  its  most  sacred, 
most  secret  thing  was  known — was  dragged  out 
into  the  light — was  spoken  of.  She  had  had  the 
courage  to  put  temptation  from  her,  and  that  in 
the  very  height  of  it;  she  had  looked  into  the 
eyes  she  loved,  and  left  the  arms  she  longed  for. 
And  the  denial,  dear  as  it  cost,  had  yet  left  her 
with  the  glory  and  joy  of  the  dream.  But 
now,  since  it  was  known  to  any  other  than  they 
two  to  whom  it  belonged,  the  glory  and  the  joy 
were  tarnished. 

"And  so,  you  see,"  Sir  Arthur  continued,  after 
a  moment,  "I  feel  that  our  life  together  is  impos- 
sible, since  your  love  is  elsewhere." 

"But  even  if  it  is,"  she  said,  "I  have  done 
no  wrong.  You  cannot  divorce  me  for  a  feel- 
ing." 

"I  do  not  propose  to  divorce  you.  I  propose 
to  allow  you  to  divorce  me." 

"But  why — why — when  there  is  no  ground,  no 
complaint,  no  just  cause?  If  you  had— had 
stayed  to  listen — oh,  of  course  you  wouldn't,  but 
if  you  had — you  would  have  seen  that — -that  I— 
she  drew  a  long  breath,  " — I  find  it  very  difficult 
to  speak  of  it  at  all — but — " 

"Yes,"  he  encouraged  kindly. 


74         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"That  I  refused  to — indulge — this  feeling  that 
I  can't  help,"  she  finished  desperately. 

"Of  course  you  would,"  he  said,  still  kindly, 
' '  of  course.  That  happens  once  or  twice,  or  even 
three  times,  when  it  comes  to  a  woman  like  you. 
But  there  is  another  time  when  she  can't  refuse 
it,  when  it  overwhelms  everything.  It  is  that 
time  that  I  want  to  guard  against,  Mary." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  "I  can  guard  myself." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  for  a  mo- 
ment, she  with  a  fine,  proud  anger,  he  with  a  sort 
of  judicial  kindness. 

"I  know  you  think  so,"  he  continued,  "but  you 
deceive  yourself,  you  underrate  your  own  feel- 
ing. It  will  change  all  your  life,  Mary.  It  can- 
not fail  to  do  so.  You  are  that  sort  of  woman." 

"What  sort  of  woman?" 

' '  Single-hearted. ' ' 

She  began  to  move  about  the  room  restlessly, 
taking  up  one  thing  after  another  and  putting 
each  down  again.  She  seemed  every  moment 
about  to  speak,  but  each  time  her  teeth  shut 
firmly  down  over  her  lower  lip,  and  she  moved  on 
to  another  place.  Sir  Arthur  watched  her  sym- 
pathetically in  silence.  Finally  she  turned  and 
spoke  impetuously. 

"Arthur,  I  don't  know  how  to  answer  you,  but 
I  do  know  that  I  am  not  the  sort  of  woman  who 
could — sin— even  for  love.  I  can  understand  it 
and  forgive  it  in  other  women,  but  I  could  never 
do  it  myself ;  or,  if  I  should — it  is  unthinkable ! — 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE        75 

but  if  I  should,  I  could  never  go  on  doing  it.'* 
She  was  looking  at  him  now  straightforwardly. 
"Except  what  you  saw — or  guessed — to-night,  I 
have  done  no  wrong.  You  believe  that,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

'  *  And  I  could  not.  Love — with  me — could  never 
be  stained." 

He  looked  at  her  rather  sadly.  "  You  are 
young,  Mary,  and  you  have  never  had  your  birth- 
right. I  ought  to  have  realized  it  before  I  mar- 
ried you,  but  I  didn't.  However,"  he  straight- 
ened himself  and  spoke  with  purpose,  "I  can  right 
it  now.  I  can  set  you  free. ' 

' '  I  don 't  want  to  be  free. ' ' 

"Still  you  must  be.  And  so  must  I.  There's 
nothing  else  for  us,  there's  nothing  left." 

"Arthur!  You  fill  me  with  amazement.  It 
seems  to  me  I've  never  known  you.  Nothing  left ! 
Why,  there's  just  what  there  was  before." 

"No,  not  even  that." 

"Not  even  that!"  she  said  in  astonishment. 
"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  it  was  so  little,  then?" 

"Comparatively,  yes.  Compared  to  what  you 
know  now — and  what  I  once  knew — real  love. ' ' 

She  dropped  weakly  into  the  nearest  chair,  and 
her  hand  went  up  to  her  head  in  a  gesture  un- 
familiar to  him — a  gesture  of  bewilderment. 

"I  don't  understand  at  all,"  she  said.  "Don't 
you  love  me,  then?  T  never  thought  about  it  be- 
fore. I  just  took  it  for  granted." 


76         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

*  *  Of  course  I  love  you.  But  it  is  different  from 
the  feeling  you  have  for — some  one  else — and  dif- 
ferent from  the  feeling  I  had,  long  ago,  for  some 
one  other  than  you." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  her  surprise  merging 
into  a  faint  sort  of  sympathy,  "I  never  knew — " 

"Of  course  you  didn't.  It  didn't  belong  to 
you.  It  was  before  your  time.  She  died.  It 
wouldn't  have  been  a  suitable  marriage,  but  I 
loved  her.  It's  that  that  makes  me  understand 
you,  now." 

Again  her  hand  went  up  to  her  head  with  that 
unusual,  bewildered  gesture.  "I  am  very  sorry 
for  you,"  she  said  gently,  after  a  moment.  "I 
wish  I  had  known  before;  I  might  have  been 
more  to  you." 

"My  dear  girl,  you've  been  all  I  needed — or 
wanted.  You  were  in  every  way — " 

"  'A  suitable  marriage?'  "  she  said,  with  an 
odd  little  smile  and  a  catch  in  her  voice. 

"Well,  yes;  put  it  that  way.  By  birth  and 
training  and  beauty  and  charm  you  fitted  into 
the  outside  part,  and  by  our  very  honest  affec- 
tion and  friendship  we  haven't  done  so  very  badly 
with  the  inside  part,  have  wet" 

"We've  been  very  happy,"  she  said,  keeping 
the  tears  out  of  her  eyes,  but  not  able  to  keep 
them  out  of  her  voice. 

"In  a  way,  yes.  But,  as  I  said  before,  even 
that  has  gone  now.  We  couldn't  be  happy  again 
with  this  between  us.  We  must  face  it,  Mary. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         77 

And  for  the  love  of  God,  let  us  face  it  honestly 
and  not  be  sentimental  about  it ! ' ' 

She  was  startled,  almost  frightened,  at  the 
vigor  of  his  tone. 

- ' '  Do  you  think, ' '  he  went  on,  speaking  with 
strong  feeling,  "that  I  could  ever  be  content  with 
second  place  ?  To  know  that,  in  spite  of  yourself, 
your  thoughts  were — leaking  out  to  him?  To  live 
by  you,  day  after  day,  year  after  year,  sharing 
bed  and  board— ah,  you  wince!  I  thought  so. 
Do  you  think  I  could  bear  to  go  on  living  with 
you,  and  know  it  all  the  time?" 

She  pushed  out  her  hands  as  if  to  ward  off  the 
effect  of  his  words  and  then  drew  them  swiftly 
back  to  cover  her  face,  as  she  moaned:  "Don't, 
don 't !  I  can 't  bear  it.  Oh,  don 't. ' ' 

"But  you  must  bear  it,"  he  said  relentlessly. 
"You  must  realize  it.  You  must  see  how  impos- 
sible the  thing  is." 

*  *  I  have  put  it  from  me. ' '  She  spoke  very  low. 
"It  doesn't  belong  to  me — this  love.  It  came  into 
my  heart  unbidden  and  unwelcome.  It  is  strong, 
but  not  stronger  than  I.  I  will  conquer  it. ' ' 

"My  poor  child,  you  can't  conquer  nature." 

"I  can— and  I  will." 

1 '  Then, ' '  he  spoke  with  a  certain  cold  contempt, 
"you  force  me  to  the  conclusion  that  I  am  not 
dealing  with  a  single-hearted  and  strong  passion 
as  I  thought,  but  with  an  ordinary  and  common- 
place 'affair,'  degrading  to  you — and  him — and 
love!" 


78        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

She  sprang  up  and  faced  him  with  flashing 
eyes. 

*  *  How  dare  you  say  such  a  thing  to  me !  Love 
isn't  degraded  by  being  denied.  Love  is  only  de- 
graded by  sin.  I  utterly  reject  it  on  such  terms. 
You  have  spoken  of  divorce.  I  refuse  it  1  I  will 
not  permit  you  to  do  me  this  wrong.  You  have 
no  cause,  no  justification ;  you  cannot  divorce  me. 
And  I  will  not  divorce  you.  I  don't  believe  in  it, 
and  everything  forbids  it — religion,  custom,  posi- 
tion. You  outrage  them  all  by  daring  to  suggest 
such  a  thing!"  She  was  white-hot  with  anger, 
but  stopped,  startled,  by  her  husband's  ex- 
pression, which  had  a  strange  fierceness  and 
fixity. 

"Oh — what  is  the  matter!"  she  cried  anx- 
iously. "Arthur — speak! — what  is  it!" 

By  degrees  his  look  relaxed.  "There's  the 
strangest  feeling  in  my  head,"  he  said  wearily. 
"Had  it  once  before  to-day.  Never  mind. 
What  were  you  saying!  I  remember  now.  So, 
for  religion,  custom,  etc.,  you  would  deny  the 
greatest  thing  in  the  world!  Why,  Mary,  it  is 
like  denying  God."  He  spoke  with  a  terrible 
solemnity. 

"No,"  she  answered  with  equal  earnestness, 
"it's  obeying  the  law  of  God.  'What  He  hath 
joined  together'  you  know.  It  may  not  be  a  very 
good  joining,  but  such  as  it  is,  it  is  there.  We 
must  make  the  best  of  it." 

He  laughed  derisively.    "God  never  joined  us 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         79 

together,"  he  said  trenchantly.  "What  God  had 
joined  together,  no  man  could  put  asunder." 

They  were  forceful  words  and  produced  a  still- 
ness between  then.  Finally  she  said  gently: 
"Let  us  not  speak  of  this  any  more  to-night.  We 
don't  seem  to  understand  each  other." 

"I  disagree  with  you.  We  understand  each 
other  rather  well,x  I  think.  You  are  pleading  iriy 
side,  or  what  ought  to  be,  perhaps — and  I  yours, 
unconsciously.  Funny,  that,"  he  laughed  a  little. 
"Well,  we'll  say  no  more  to-night.  But  it's  got 
to  be.  And  after  a  while,  you'll  marry  Car- 
michael.  I  will  make  your  way  easy.  Since  we 
have  had  no  child,  it  is  the  only  honest  course." 

She  paused  on  her  way  to  the  door,  arrested  by 
his  last  sentence.  "  'Since  we  have  had  no 
child ! '  Arthur,  would  that  have  made  such  a  dif- 
ference T ' ' 

"Of  course  it  would.  It's  the  only  thing  that 
matters.  It's  what  marriage  is  for." 

She  stood  looking  at  him  pathetically.  "I 
don't  seem  to  have  known  you  all  these  years," 
she  said.  "I  thought  you  were  a  man  absolutely 
made  by  your  class  and  its  conventionalities,  and  I 
find  you  a  strangely  primitive,  natural  person, 
without  any  moral  standard  at  all ! " 

"With  the  higher  morality  which  is  nature," 
he  corrected  gravely.  "It's  odd,  but  I  was  think- 
ing much  the  same  sort  of  thing  about  you— only 
the  other  way  'round.  I  thought  you  were  a  sort 
of  wild  creature,  with  a  great,  natural  heart,  and  I 


80        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

find  you  hemmed  in  by  conventionalities  you  call 
4 right'  and  'wrong.'  Poor  child,  you'll  have  a 
hard  time  finding  wjiich  is  which,  in  this  hurly- 
burly.  There  comes  a  time  when  you  lose  faith 
in  both,  they  get  so  mixed  up  together.  Then  you 
have  only  your  instinct  to  guide  you — the  voice  of 
nature." 

"And  the  voice  of  God,"  she  said  reverently. 

"They  are  one  and  the  same,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  no!" 

"Oh,  yes!"  he  answered  strongly,  then  more 
gently:  "There,  never  mind,  we  can  get  no  far- 
ther with  the  question  now.  You'll  see  it — soon. 
Good  night.  Try  to  sleep.  Yes,  so  will  I.  Don't 
worry.  You'll  see  it  will  all  come  right." 


CHAPTER  VI 

"Look  thou  deep  down  into  my  soul  and  see 
The  way  in  which  I  love  thee;  test  and  prove 
The  spirit's  passion,  and  the  strength  thereof" 

PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTOK. 

RATHEE  faint,  and  with  a  trembling  of 
body  and  spirit,  Mary  Stanhope  reached 
her  own  room  and  turned  the  key  in  the 
door.  She  was  terribly  tired,  emotionally  ex- 
hausted. Yet  no  sleep  came  to  her  relief,  no  re- 
laxation to  her  tense  body.  Whichever  way  her 
mind  turned  it  came  back  to  live  through  again 
some  scene  of  the  evening.  The  remembrance  of 
Carmichael's  embrace,  the  sense  of  his  enfolding 
personality  stole  over  her  tired  nerves,  the  very 
thought  of  him  bringing  rest.  But  she  knew  she 
must  not  rest  in  that  thought  and  thrust  it  forci- 
bly from  her.  Back  came  the  tension,  and  once 
again,  in  imagination,  she  saw  the  Duke's  kind, 
stern  eyes,  and  felt  again  the  hot  tide  of  humilia- 
tion rush  over  her.  It  was  well-nigh  unbearable. 
He,  even  he,  would  misjudge  her,  would  blame 
her.  Her  pride  bled  from  its  hurt. 

And  then  her  mind  worked  around  again  to  the 
scene  she  had  just  lived  through.  In  amazement, 
in  utter  amazement,  she  reviewed  each  word  of 
her  husband.  If  any  one  had  told  her  yesterday 


82        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

that  Sir  Arthur  would  ever  give  voice  to  the 
things  she  had  heard  him  say,  she  would  not  have 
believed  it.  She  had  thought  she  understood  so 
well  this  grave,  quiet  man.  She  had  been  so  sure 
of  him,  of  his  dignified  affection,  of  his  fidelity 
and  honor.  And  all  the  time,  as  she  now  saw,  she 
had  not  known  him  at  all,  but  he  had  known  her 
better  than  she  knew  herself. 

That  was  the  amazing  thing:  that  he  had  known 
her,  and  she  had  not  known  herself,  or  him.  "I 
thought  you  a  wild,  natural  creature,"  he  had  said. 
Well,  was  she  not  f  Could  any  other  have  yielded 
even  for  a  moment  to  such  a  tide  of  passion  as 
had  swept  her  away!  Could  anything  else  excuse 
it  1  That  impetuous,  still,  wonder-filled  moment ! 
She  closed  her  eyes,  and  the  memory  of  it  en- 
croached on  her  mind.  And  once  again  she  thrust 
it  fiercely  away,  springing  up  to  walk  with  rapid, 
noiseless  step  up  and  down  the  long  room. 
"Great-hearted"  her  husband  had  called  her. 
Was  she!  That  was  for  time  to  test  and  show. 
For  the  moment  she  was  too  bewildered,  too  over- 
whelmed with  feeling,  to  think  clearly;  but  the 
surge  of  emotion  beating  through  the  channel  of 
her  mind  every  now  and  then  threw  up  some  ex- 
pression that  struck  like  a  rock  on  her  brain. 

"God  never  joined  us  together;  if  He  had,  no 
man  could  put  us  asunder."  Startling1  as  the 
idea  was,  combating  as  it  did  the  stand  of  her 
Church,  something  deep  within  her  seized  on  the 
suggestion  with  conviction.  It  shocked  her  to 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         83 

find  her  instinct  stronger  than  her  training,  to 
realize  her  husband's  just  valuation  when  he 
called  her  ' '  a  wild,  natural  creature. ' '  That  crea- 
ture knew  that  he  was  right.  What  God  had 
joined,  no  man  could  put  asunder.  But  if  God 
had  not  joined  them,  who  had?  Her  mind  ques- 
tioned, and  a  mind  beneath  that  seemed  to 
answer:  "No  one;  you  two  are  not  joined." 
Laboriously  she  tried  to  thread  her  way  through 
this  labyrinth  of  thought  and  conjecture.  Not 
joined — she  and  the  man  whose  name  she  bore, 
whose  life  she  shared !  No  child  had  blessed  their 
union,  and  she  knew  from  the  night's  revelations 
there  were  large  spaces  in  the  character  of  each 
unknown  to  the  other.  But  the  blessing  of  Holy 
Church  had  been  given  to  their  marriage;  surely 
that  was  the  joining — the  way  appointed  of  God 
to  hallow  the  union  of  a  man  and  a  woman.  She 
clung  to  that  thought,  as  the  one  sure  thing  in  a 
world  that  was  whirling  about  her.  Yet — yet — 
what  was  that  voice  in  her  heart  crying  that  the 
Divine  Sanction  was  given  to  love  alone,  the  su- 
preme, predestined  love  that  recognized  its  mate, 
even  though  that  mate  were  found  outside  the 
marriage  bond? 

Philip  Carmichael's  eyes — Philip  Carmichael's 
voice  saying:  "When  two  people  care  as  we 
care,  it  makes  the  future,  it  makes  the  world;" 
and  her  husband's  endorsing  it,  in  substance: 
"It  will  change  all  your  life,  Mary,  it  cannot  fail 
to  do  so,"  came  to  her,  almost  simultaneously. 


84    THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Had  both  these  men  some  wisdom  that  joined  with 
her  own  instinct  against  the  accepted  code,  the 
established  law  of  things?  Or  were  they  all 
wrong,  and  the  only  truth  really  in  her  religion, 
in  the  teaching  of  the  Church  of  the  sacredness 
and  the  indissolubility  of  marriage?  Marriage 
was  a  sacrament,  an  outward  and  visible  sign  of 
an  inward  and  spiritual  grace,  but  when  it  was 
only  an  outward  sign,  and  the  inward  grace  of  it 
was  lacking,  was  it  then  a  sacrament  still? 

Very  wearily  her  tired  mind  traced  and  re- 
traced its  way  through  these  strange  new  paths, 
seeking  for  some  light  upon  her  problem.  Sud- 
denly, upon  an  impulse,  she  took  her  Bible  from 
the  prie-dieu  where  it  lay  and  let  it  open  where 
it  would.  Kneeling,  almost  dreading  to  read,  as 
the  oracle  of  fate  must  often  have  been  dreaded, 
she  saw  that  the  book  had  opened  to  the  "Song 
of  Songs."  Her  eyes  fell  on  the  words:  "I 
opened  to  my  beloved ;  but  my  beloved  had  with- 
drawn himself,  and  was  gone :  my  soul  failed  when 
he  spake ;  I  sought  him,  but  I  could  not  find  him : 
I  called  him,  but  he  gave  me  no  answer. 

"The  watchman  that  went  about  the  city  found 
me,  they  smote  me,  they  wounded  me ;  the  keepers 
of  the  walls  took  away  my  veil  from  me." 

The  mystical  words  shed  upon  her  soul  a  sense 
of  fear,  of  foreboding,  yet  she  read  on  through 
the  rest  of  the  great  poem  to  the  verse :  * '  Many 
waters  cannot  quench  love,  neither  can  the  floods 
drown  it:  if  a  man  would  give  all  the  substance 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         85 

of  his  house  for  love,  it  would  utterly  be  con- 
temned. ' ' 

All  the  substance  of  his  house!  What  it  cost 
— this  love!  All — simply  all.  And  even  then 
"it  would  utterly  be  contemned!" 

Shaken  as  she  was  to  the  core  of  her  being  by 
the  strange,  deep  force  that  had  come  into  her 
life,  Mary  Stanhope  was  too  Catholic-minded,  too 
well-grounded  in  the  tenets  of  her  religion  to  give 
it  up  lightly.  Her  High-Church  training  was  not 
easily  put  aside.  It  had  made  the  whole  habit  of 
her  mind,  it  would  always  sway  her,  and  though 
the  instinct  that  warred  with  it  might  trouble  her 
peace,  it  yet  could  not  govern  her  action.  Some- 
thing higher  than  her  own  instinct,  something 
mystical,  divine,  would  always  control  her  when  it 
came  to  the  crucial  test.  Not  for  the  first  time  the 
woman  kneeling  at  her  prie-dieu  in  the  early 
dawn,  crying  out  for  guidance,  for  strength,  felt 
the  fading  away  of  material  things,  and  the  whis- 
per of  unseen  presences.  That  wonderful  sense 
of  protection  which  God  gives  to  His  children  who 
seek  Him  gradually  enveloped  her.  She  slipped 
from  her  kneeling  position  unconsciously,  until 
her  head  rested  upon  the  cushion  of  the  stool,  and 
merciful  sleep  came  to  her  at  last. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"Friends — old  friends — 
And  what  if  it  ends? 
Shall  we  dare  to  shirk 
What  we  live  to  learn? 
It  has  done  its  work, 
It  has  served  its  turn; 
And  forgive  and  forget 
Or  hanker  and  fret, 
We  can  be  no  more 
As  we  were  before. 
When  it  ends,  it  ends 
With  friends" 

W.  E.  HENLEY. 

THE  Duke  meanwhile  had  had  rather  an  un- 
comfortable evening  after  Mary  had  left 
the  ball  with  Carmichael.  He  had  had  to 
explain  her  sudden  departure  to  the  Duchess  and 
Lady  Kitty,  and  neither  of  them  was  easy  to  de- 
ceive. Lady  Kitty,  indeed,  quite  startled  him 
by  the  calmness  with  which  she  answered  the 
Duchess'  question:  "But  I  suppose  Mr.  Car- 
rnichael  will  return?"  with  the  assurance,  "No, 
hardly."  The  Duchess  glanced  at  her  sharply 
but  forebore  comment.  The  Duke  met  Ben 
Baldwin's  straight  look  and  felt  very  uncomfor- 
table. 

Young   Mr.   Martyn-Dale,  who  was   standing 
near,  and  who  had  heard  some  of  the  explana- 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         87 

tions,  said  to  his  partner,  a  Mrs.  St.  Clair,  as  they 
turned  away:  "Oh,  well,  I  dare  say  it  is  nothing 
serious  with  Sir  Arthur.  At  any  rate,  Car- 
michael  will  console  Lady  Stanhope." 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  St.  Clair,  "every  one 
knows  they  are  simply  crazy  about  each  other. ' ' 

"What?"  said  the  Duke  below  his  breath. 

As  they  moved  away,  Mrs.  St.  Clair  continued : 
"I  don't  understand  why  Sir  Arthur  permits  it, 
— mari  complaisant,  I  suppose." 

Lady  Kitty  looked  after  the  couple  with  great 
disapproval  in  her  dainty  face.  l '  I  don 't  think, ' ' 
she  said  evenly  to  the  Duchess,  "that  we  need  to 
see  very  much  of  those  two  in  the  future,  need  we, 
Aunt!"  To  which  the  Duchess  answered  with 
her  "Huh!"  a  little  fiercer  than  usual.  All  of 
which  had  caused  the  Duke  a  good  deal  of  misgiv- 
ing and  distress.  That  Mary,  of  all  women, 
should  have  a  love  affair,  was  sufficiently  deplor- 
able, but  that  other  people  knew  of  it,  spoke  of  it 
lightly,  linking  her  good  name  with  a  man's  quite 
openly  and  assuredly,  was  cause  for  consterna- 
tion. 

In  wakeful  intervals  of  the  night,  he  found  him- 
self wondering  what  course  to  take  with  regard 
to  her.  Could  he  venture  a  word  of  warning,  of 
counsel?  She  was  like  a  child  to  him,  he  had 
known  her  so  long  and  so  well.  And  he  had 
known  both  her  parents  as  she  herself,  poor  child, 
had  never  known  them.  They  had  given  him  a 
charge  concerning  her,  when  he  stood  sponsor  for 


88         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

her  at  her  baptism.  His  mind  went  back  to  that 
time.  It  was  before  he  succeeded  to  the  title, 
which  he  had  not  then  expected  to  do.  He  could 
see  again  his  young  friend,  Christopher  Lord, 
who  had  been  attached  to  the  American  Embassy. 
He  remembered  his  marriage  to  the  English 
girl,  who  was  Mary's  mother.  How  happy  they 
had  been  that  first  year  or  two,  how  happier 
still  when  the  little  daughter  came!  How  re- 
sponsible and  proud  he,  too,  had  felt,  when 
his  friend  had  asked  him  to  be  godfather,  and  he 
had  held  the  tiny  human  thing  awkwardly  in  his 
arms,  and  it  had  gazed  at  him  with  serene  and 
fearless  eyes.  Of  her  childhood  he  had  known 
little,  as  after  the  death  of  her  parents  she  was 
under  her  aunt's  care,  mostly  in  America;  but 
in  her  early  young  womanhood  they  had  met 
again  and  had  become  fast  friends.  It  was  he 
who  had  brought  her  to  her  confirmation;  it  was 
he  who  had  given  her  away  in  marriage.  His 
heart  stirred  with  many  memories  of  her,  so  fresh, 
so  spontaneously  gay,  so  darling! — that  was  it 
— so  utterly  lovable.  She  had  a  freedom  he 
was  unused  to  in  English  girls,  and  a  reserve  he 
had  never  seen  in  Americans,  a  fine  combination 
of  the  best  qualities  of  both.  The  Duke  sighed. 
He  had  not  known  until  very  recently  that  her 
life  was  not  all  it  seemed  to  be  on  the  surface. 
He  slept  badly  and  woke  late  in  consequence. 
During  the  morning  he  was  not  surprised  to  re- 
ceive a  note  from  Mary,  which  only  said:  "Can 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         89 

you  come  to  me  at  once?  I  need  your  advice  and 
help." 

He  felt  somewhat  relieved  on  the  whole.  Now 
a  few  words  of  wisdom,  which  he  had  garnered 
into  his  barns  of  experience,  would  probably  be 
of  use  to  both  these  young  friends.  He  would 
sympathize,  chide,  advise.  Probably  that  would 
be  all  that  was  necessary.  He  was  quite  prepared 
to  do  each  of  these  things  with  as  much  tact  and 
reserve  as  the  situation  permitted. 

When  he  reached  Whitehall  Gardens,  he  was 
shown  at  once  into  Lady  Stanhope's  own  morn- 
ing-room. She  was  lying  down,  looking  very 
tired  and  listless ;  but  she  sprang  up  as  he  entered. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come!"  she  exclaimed, 
the  look  of  strain  deepening  in  her  face.  ''I  have 
so  needed  you." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  Duke  gently,  as  he 
took  her  hand. 

She  held  his  tightly,  unconscious  of  her  grasp, 
while  she  searched  for  words. 

"I  don't  know  where  to  begin  or  how  to  tell 
you,"  she  said  helplessly.  "You  won't  believe 
it;  it's  too  incredible!" 

"I  dare  say  it  won't  even  surprise  me,"  said 
the  Duke,  by  way  of  encouragement. 

"It  surprised  me,"  she  answered.  Then  she 
faced  him  directly.  "When  I  came  home  last 
night,  Arthur  was  waiting  for  me.  He  wasn't 
ill.  We  talked.  The  long  and  short  of  it  is,  he 
wants  to  divorce  me." 


90         THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"What?"  said  the  Duke  slowly,  in  amazement. 

"Yes,  I  thought  it  would  astonish  you." 

"But  he  can't!"  He  looked  at  her  search- 
ingly.  "Can  he?" 

"Of  course  he  can't."  She  turned  away  with 
a  sick  loneliness.  That  had  been  a  bitter  sec- 
ond when  even  her  godfather  had  found  it  neces- 
sary to  ask:  "Can  he?"  Even  he  had  not 
known  her ! 

"I  should  have  said,  perhaps,"  she  went  on, 
"that  he  wishes  me  to  divorce  him.  It  comes  to 
the  same  thing." 

"Not  at  all  the  same  thing,"  the  Duke  answered 
warmly.  "A  man  can  divorce  a  woman  for  in- 
fidelity; a  woman  can  divorce  a  man  only  for  in- 
fidelity and  cruelty.  Both  charges  have  to  be 
proved. ' ' 

"I  know.    It  seems  very  unjust." 

"Law  is  not  justice,  though  it  has  justice  for 
its  object.  It  is  often  very  unjust  in  individual 
cases." 

"But  surely  it  is  for  individual  cases  that  one 
appeals  to  the  law." 

"Surely." 

"Well,  then,"  she  said,  troubled,  "surely  I— 
oh,  dear  Duke,  I  can't  talk  abstractedly  or  in  the 
third  person.  This  concerns  him,  me,  concretely 
and  vitally.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  how  the  law 
concerns  him  and  me;  what  protection  have  I 
against  his  strong  wish  to  set  me  free?" 

"Mary,  my  child,  you  amaze  me!    Surely  you 


91 

have  misunderstood  your  husband,  or  taken  too 
seriously  something  said  in  the  heat  of  anger. " 

* '  But  he  wasn  't  angry ! ' ' 

The  Duke,  puzzled,  continued:  "Arthur  is 
very  proud.  It  is  quite  natural  that  he  should 
have  resented — "  he  nerved  himself  to  face  her 
unflinching  eyes — "what  took  place  last  night  in 
the  alcove.  Any  man  who  cared  for  his  wife 
would  have  been  disturbed  by  ijt." 

"Of  course,"  she  answered  quietly,  "but  he 
does  not  care  for  me. ' ' 

"I  don't  think  that  is  true,"  said  the  Duke. 

"I  mean,  not  in  that  way.  He  cares  for  me  be- 
cause I  am  his  wife,  but  not  for  me  as  me,  do  you 
see?  So  long  as  I  have  his  name  and  place  in 
the  world,  he  has  to  care  for  that,  because  it  is 
a  part  of  himself.  That  is  why  he  wishes  to  sep- 
arate from  me.  Then  he  need  not  care  even  for 
that  any  longer." 

The  Duke  walked  up  and  down  in  much  per- 
plexity. He  had  expected  to  play  the  part  of 
peacemaker  and  smooth  over  a  family  difficulty. 
He  had  thought  there  would  be  tears  and  contri- 
tion on  the  woman's  side,  and  probably  a  reserved 
forgiveness  on  the  man's.  With  that  he  had 
hoped  to  patch  up  a  peace  that  would  last  until 
the  source  of  trouble  was  removed,  which  source 
was,  of  course,  Carmichael.  The  Duke  hoped  he 
might  be  removed  perhaps  at  the  next  election, 
but  if  not  that,  at  least  delicately  dropped  from 
the  set  in  which  they  were  used  to  seeing  much 


92    THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

of  him.  And  now,  instead  of  the  trouble  being 
removed,  it  had  precipitated  itself  into  the  lives 
of  his  two  friends,  and  into  his  own.  He  was  find- 
ing it  not  easy  to  be  an  arbiter  of  destiny. 

"You  say  Arthur  was  not  angry?"  he  asked. 

' '  No,  not  angry,  exactly — no,  far  from  that ;  but 
he  said  the  most  extraordinary  things." 

"What  sort  of  things?" 

"That — that  we  couldn't  go  on  living  together, 
since  I  cared  for — some  one  else;  he  hinted  that 
it  would  be  desecration  of  one's  finest  instincts, 
war  against  something  God  has  planted  in  us — 
and  that  I  shouldn't  always  be  able  to  control 
it,  as  I  did  last  night—  She  stopped,  appalled 
at  speaking  of  such  things. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Duke  encouragingly,  marvel- 
ling much. 

"And  that  he  wished  to  set  me  free  to  protect 
me  from  myself,  before — before — " 

"I  see." 

"And  that  I  was  the  sort  of  woman — single- 
hearted,  he  called  it — whose  whole  life  would  be 
changed  by — a  feeling." 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  the  Duke  curi- 
ously. 

"I  said,  of  course,  that  I  wouldn't  even  con- 
sider divorce;  that  everything  forbade  it,  reli- 
gion, custom,  everything." 

The  Duke  looked  relieved.  "My  dear  girl," 
he  said,  after  a  little,  "feelings  change.  Love 
is  only  a  feeling,  the  most  inconstant  of  all.  You 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         93 

think  not,  now ;  but  in  a  year  or  two  you  will  have 
forgotten  it — yes,  forgotten  it,  completely." 

She  shrank  from  the  words.  "Then  I  should 
despise  myself,'*  she  said. 

"Of  course  you  think  so  now,  but  wait."  He 
came  over  to  her  and  laid  both  hands  on  her 
shoulders  with  much  kindness.  "I'm  an  old  man, 
Mary,  child,  and  I've  lived — much.  It  all  passes, 
all.  The  only  thing  that  lasts  is  your  character : 
that  house  you  build  to  live  in  all  the  years  of 
your  life,  and  to  die  in  and  take  with  you — the 
only  thing  you  can  take — into  the  next  life." 

"I  know,  dear  Godfather."  There  were  tears 
in  her  voice. 

He  went  on  thinking  aloud,  his  hands  still  on 
her  shoulders,  punctuating  his  speech  with  gentle 
pats  that  were  kindness  and  affection  itself. 
"In  any  emergency,  any  sudden  crisis  of  feeling, 
any  unforeseen  situation,  we  do  the  thing  we  are 
— not  the  thing  we  might  wish  to  do  if  we  had 
time  to  think  about  it — but  the  thing  which  we 
are,  which  we  have  made  ourselves  all  along  the 
way  which  led  up  to  the  situation,  all  along  the 
way  which  built  up  the  character.  It's  the  char- 
acter that  acts.  These  are  platitudes,  I  know, 
child.  I'm  only  saying  them  that  you  may  real- 
ize that  I  understand  you  could  not  do  a  real 
wrong,  because  you  are  something  different. 
Therefore  I  know  whatever  decision  my  Mary 
comes  to,  it  will  be  a  right  one." 

She  buried  her  head  against  his  shoulder,  that 


94    THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

he  might  not  see  the  tears  which  his  kindness 
had  started.  After  a  minute  she  said  impul- 
sively: "And  you  never  said  a  word  of  blame, 
though  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  am  not 
blameless.  But  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"Well,"  said  the  Duke  reflectively,  improvi- 
sing as  if  he  were  telling  a  fairy  story  to  a  child, 
"suppose  you  go  and  sit  in  the  upper  room  of 
that  house  we  were  talking  about  just  now — the 
house  of  your  own  character  that  you  have 
builded  yourself — the  highest  room  of  it,  and 
meditate  on  what  you  want  to  do." 

"I  don't  have  to  meditate.  I  know.  It  isn't 
what  I  want,  but  what  is  right.  And  divorce  is 
not  right,  Godfather — not  for  me,  for  us." 

After  a  moment  the  kind  old  voice  answered 
her.  "You  know  what  it  means — the  absolute 
relinquishment,  the  giving  up  forever — " 

"Yes,"  she  interrupted  hurriedly,  not  looking 
at  him,  and  then  more  slowly,  her  voice  breaking : 
"Yes,  I— know." 

The  Duke  looked  at  her  with  compassion. 
That  wonderful,  wild,  sweet  call  of  one  to  another 
that  we  name  love — surely  she  was  made  for  it 
if  ever  a  woman  was,  surely  she  deserved  it,  if 
ever  a  woman  did,  surely  she  could  return  it  in 
far  greater  measure  than  most  women  ever  know 
how  to  do !  He  noted,  almost  as  if  her  familiar, 
dear  face  were  strange  to  him,  how  clear  and 
fine  the  features  were,  and  what  a  wealth  of  pas- 
sion and  suffering  looked  out  of  the  eyes. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         95 

"You  care  so  much?"  lie  said  in  a  whisper. 

She  nodded  without  speaking. 

"And  you  are  willing  to  give  up  what  you  think 
your  happiness  for  the  sake  of — a  scruple?  You 
will  send  your  lover  away  and  go  on  with  your 
life  on  its  own  old  lines,  just  because  it  is  right?" 

"What  else?"  she  answered.  "It  is  what 
makes  all  the  difference  to — love." 

The  Duke's  face  kindled,  and  he  stood  sud- 
denly taller. 

"It  is  the  one  thing  greater,"  he  said 
solemnly. 

A  rare  moment  fell  like  a  blessing  upon  them 
both,  in  which  each  caught  something  of  the  in- 
spiration of  united  thought.  To  the  Duke  it  was 
the  vindication  of  the  old  faith  he  had  loved  and 
lived  by  these  many  years,  which  demanded  and 
received,  fresh  and  spontaneous,  its  free-will  of- 
fering from  the  heart  of  the  younger  generation. 
To  the  woman  it  brought  the  consolation  of  sacri- 
fice, of  the  precious  ointment  spilled,  and  ac- 
cepted by  the  Lord  of  love. 

To  both  of  them,  in  that  high  mood,  the  en- 
trance of  Sir  Arthur  came  like  a  shock.  He 
stood  quietly  surveying  them,  gathering  from 
their  faces  something  of  the  import  of  what  they 
had  been  saying.  When  he  spoke,  after  a  mo- 
ment or  two,  he  said  in  a  quite  ordinary  voice: 

"Very  glad  Mary  sent  for  you,  Duke.  Most 
sensible  thing  she  could  have  done.  I  hope  you 
have  been  giving  her  good  advice." 


96    THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

1  'She  doesn't  need  it,"  said  the  Duke  gently, 
"but  I'm  afraid  you  do,  Arthur." 

"So?"  returned  Sir  Arthur  imperturbably. 
Then,  after  a  moment:  "So  that's  where  you 
stand,  is  it?  Then  I  have  you  against  me,  too." 
He  said  it  evenly,  without  animosity,  but  simply 
as  if  he  were  weighing  it  for  future  use,  adding 
it  to  the  sum  total  of  his  knowledge  in  a  disin- 
terested manner. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  Duke,  "you  must 
not  think  such  a  thing  for  a  moment.  I  am  not 
'against'  either  of  you,  but  for  both  of  you — to- 
gether. There  can  be  no  other  way  for  you  and 
Mary.  She  thinks  so,  too.  And  I'm  sure  you 
will,  soon,  even  if  you  don't  already.  Of  course," 
he  added  diffidently,  "this  is  all  very  extraor- 
dinary and — er — difficult — and — I  feel  like  apolo- 
gizing for  intruding  so  far  into  your  private  con- 
cerns, but  since  circumstances  have  led  up  to 
it,  you  must  put  down  my  participation  in  your 
affairs  to  my  genuine  solicitude  for  your  wel- 
fare." 

"Quite  so,"  returned  Sir  Arthur.  "I  under- 
stand and  appreciate  it.  And  even  if  I  didn't, 
you  have  every  right,  since  Mary  is,  in  a  sense, 
your  ward.  You  are  the  first  person  to  whom  she 
turns,  you  see.  Your  points  of  view  would 
naturally  coincide.  But  I  hope,  for  all  our  sakes, 
that  you  both  may  change  your  present  convic- 
tions. For  I  am  set  on  my  course." 

He    spoke    quietly,    but    with    immense    force 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         97 

behind  his  words,  and  the  glitter  of  his  eye 
startled  the  Duke. 

"But  my  dear  Arthur,"  he  expostulated  with 
warmth,  "your  course  is  a  very  extraordinary 
one,  and  you  cannot  pursue  it  in  the  light  of 
reason ! ' ' 

"Then — without  it,"  said  Sir  Arthur  inflexibly 
with  an  ironical  smile. 

Two  red  spots  had  begun  to  glow  in  Mary  Stan- 
hope 'a  tired  face.  A  look  came  into  the  Duke's 
eyes  like  the  gray  glint  on  steel.  All  three  had  a 
sense  of  quickened  pulses,  as  of  battle  drawing 
nearer. 

"You  propose,"  said  the  Duke,  his  voice  grown 
suddenly  cold  and  challenging,  "to  attempt  to 
divorce  your  wife." 

"I  propose  that  she  shall  divorce  me." 

"You  know  the  laws  of  our  country,  on  what 
terms  only,  such  a  divorce  can  be  procured  ? ' ' 

"I  do  not  propose  to  use  the  laws  of  my 
country,  but  of  hers — America." 

"Good  heavens!" 

"It  is  much  simpler  there.  We  can  be  'incom- 
patible' or  'deserted'  or  anything  she  likes  to 
call  it,  in  several  States.  She  can  choose  which 
one  she  likes,  settle  there  for  a  time,  bring  the 
suit,  and  I  will  not  even  defend  it." 

"You  forget,"  said  the  Duke  sternly,  "that 
Mary,  as  your  wife,  is  no  longer  an  American. 
Your  country  is  her  country.  In  point  of  law,  she 
is  English." 


98        THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"That  is  true,"  Sir  Arthur  returned  thought- 
fully. "Yet  I  am  sure  that  can  be  got  around. 
American  wives  do  divorce  English  husbands  and 
remarry." 

"I  should  never  remarry  in  your  lifetime,  even 
if  divorced, ' '  said  his  wife  quietly. 

* '  And  an  American  divorce  would  probably  not 
free  you.  You  could  not  remarry  while  she 
lived,"  said  the  Duke. 

"Bless  you,  I  don't  want  to!  It's  Mary  who 
must,  not  me.  This  is  for  her,  not  me — because 
I  believe  it  to  be  right." 

"But  she  does  not." 

"She  doesn't  understand  yet;  but  she  will. 
It's  her  right,  her  due,  her  portion  in  life,  and 
I'll  not  keep  it  from  her.  She  hasn't  sought  it, 
it  has  come  to  her;  she  has  honestly  struggled 
against  it,  she  has  thrust  it  away  from  her.  I've 
watched.  I've  seen.  I  know.  And  its  claim  is 
the  more  inexorable  because  it  is  denied.  I'll  not 
stand  between  her  and  the  secret  desire  of  her 
heart.  It's  a  part  of  the  secret  purpose  of  God. 
And  what  have  I  to  offer  her  in  comparison  with 
it?  We  like  and  respect  each  other,  and  that's 
all,  now." 

*  *  Arthur, ' '  said  the  Duke,  with  a  tremble  in  his 
old  voice,  "when  people  come  to  the  pass  where 
you  and  Mary  are  now,  there  are  two  things  that 
save  them.  One's  pride  and  the  other's  time. 
Take  time  now  to  consider !  Go  away  for  a  while 
— separate  for  six  months  or  a  year  on  any  ex- 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE         99 

cuse;  it  will  be  well  worth  while.  Think,  if  this 
divorce  really  came  up,  how  your  pride  would 
suffer,  what  your  family  would  say!  What  your 
place  in  your  party  would  mean!  You  say  you 
like  and  respect  each  other.  Well,  marriages  of 
respect  are  apt  to  fail,  but  in  the  long  run  they 
are  apt  to  win  out,  too.  Kemember  that." 

Sir  Arthur,  with  a  broad,  negative  gesture, 
brushed  the  words  aside.  "Those  things  don't 
matter,"  he  said. 

"Don't  matter?"  exclaimed  the  Duke. 

"No.  As  for  my  pride,  it  would  suffer  far 
more  to  go  on  as  we  are  now,  than  to  separate 
forever.  As  for  my  people,  there  is  only  my 
brother,  who  will  come  into  what  I  have,  when  I 
am  dead,  since  we  have  had  no  child.  Don't 
wince,  Mary,  and  don't  mind.  Such  things  are 
ordained.  And  as  for  my  party,  it  will  make  no 
difference,  after  the  nine  days'  wonder!  No,  not 
one  of  these  things  matters.  What  matters  is 
our  sincerity  and  Mary's  happiness." 

' '  She  '11  find  that  in  her  own  way,  not  in  yours. ' ' 

"She'll  find  it  in  Carmichael." 

"Think  what  it  would  mean  for  him!  A 
breath  of  scandal  touching  his  career  at  this  time 
would  ruin  it!" 

"One  must  pay  something  for  everything. 
Mary  would  compensate." 

A  servant  knocked  and  entered  with  a  card. 
Sir  Arthur  took  it. 

"Mr.  Carmichael!    Ask  him  to  come  up,"  he 


100      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

continued,  paying  no  attention  to  the  exclama- 
tions of  the  other  two.  "I  asked  him  to  call  to- 
day, before  going  to  the  House.  I  thought  by 
that  time  I  should  have  thought  things  over 
and  have  something  to  say  to  him.  Well,  I 
have  thought,  and  I  have  something  to  say  to 
him." 

"Arthur — I  must  beg — this  is  between  us," 
said  Mary  Stanhope. 

"And  I  must  protest,"  said  the  Duke.  "Stan- 
hope, I  don't  think  you  realize  how  impossible 
a  thing  you  are  doing.  It's  outrageous!  It's  in- 
credible !  I  will  not  be  a  part  of  such  a  proceed- 
ing!" 

"You  can  withdraw  if  you  like,"  said  Sir 
Arthur  coldly.  "No,  not  you,  Mary,  it  concerns 
you.  You  had  better  remain." 

The  Duke  walked  up  and  down  with  quick, 
nervous  steps.  There  was  a  glitter  in  Sir  Arthur 
Stanhope's  eye  which  almost  frightened  him. 
A  doubt  came  into  his  mind  if  he  were  quite  sane. 
Surely  nothing  else  could  account  for  so  ex- 
traordinary a  course.  He  noted  Mary's  tense  at- 
titude as  she  stood  with  strong  control,  immov- 
able by  the  window.  He  made  one  last  attempt 
for  her  sake. 

"Let  me  beg  you,"  he  said  almost  beseechingly, 
"before  this  goes  too  far,  to  wait  until  some 
calmer  time ;  do  not  let  this  scene  be  known  to  an 
outsider. 

"He  is  very  much  inside,"  returned  Sir  Arthur 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       101 

drily,    as    the    servant   ushered    in    Carmichael. 
"What  will  you  do,  Duke?" 

The  Duke  did  not  answer  in  words  but  stepped 
quickly   to   Mary's   side.     She   did   not   turn   or 


''How  are  you,  Carmichael!"  said  Sir  Arthur. 
They  did  not  shake  hands.  Carmichael  had  en- 
tered nervously,  hat  and  stick  in  hand.  He  made 
some  conventional  rejoinder,  and  was  about  to 
add  an  inquiry  for  his  host's  health,  when  he  en- 
countered, full  and  square  in  the  face,  Sir 
Arthur's  look.  Their  eyes  held  for  a  minute, 
each  unflinching.  Then  Carmichael 's  wandered 
to  Mary  Stanhope,  by  the  window.  He  saw  she 
was  in  anguish  of  mind,  and  made  an  instinctive 
movement  toward  her,  checking  it  instantly  as  his 
glance  crossed  the  Duke's.  The  old  man  stood, 
full  of  the  unconscious  pride  of  race,  and  with 
the  conscious  pride  of  protection  in  his  attitude. 
Philip  Carmichael  noticed  this  with  relief,  and 
then  turned  back  to  Sir  Arthur  in  silence,  wait- 
ing for  whatever  might  follow.  After  a  slight 
pause,  Sir  Arthur  said  slowly: 

"You  come  at  an  opportune  moment,  Mr. 
Carmichael.  I  asked  you  to  call  to-day,  because 
I  thought  I — should  have  matured  my  plans  by 
then.  I  have  done  so.  After  last  night  you  will, 
I  think,  hardly  be  surprised  if  I  suggest  that — 
that  Lady  Stanhope  should  have — the  benefit  of 
your  protection  in  future,  since  she  will  not  have 
mine. ' ' 


102       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

The  Duke  groaned.  "Good  Lord,  Stanhope, 
what  a  way  to  put  it!" 

"What  does  it  matter,"  answered  Sir  Arthur 
fiercely,  "how  one  puts  it?  The  blunter  the  bet- 
ter !  I  propose,  Mr.  Cannichael,  that  Lady  Stan- 
hope shall  divorce  me  in  America,  as  quickly  and 
easily  as  possible,  and  when  that  is  done — " 

"When  that  is  done,"  said  Cannichael  quickly, 
his  mind  instantly  grasping  the  situation,  "if 
Lady  Stanhope  will  do  me  the  honor  to  marry  me, 
I  shall  be  proud." 

Again  the  two  men  looked  each  other  in  the 
eyes,  neither  shirking  it.  Sir  Arthur's  expres- 
sion was  insolent,  demanding.  Carmichael's  was 
equally  insolent,  commanding,  as  if  he,  not  the 
other,  were  the  master  of  the  situation.  He  con- 
tinued : 

"But,  it  is  only  fair  to  warn  you  beforehand, 
before  you  proceed,  or  force  Lady  Stanhope  to 
proceed,  to  this  extreme  measure,  that  there  has 
been  nothing  in  our  relations  to  warrant  it. ' ' 

Again  the  Duke  groaned. 

"Do  you  suppose,"  said  Sir  Arthur,  and  the 
whole  weight  of  his  personality  lay  behind  his 
words,  which  fell  like  blows,  "if  there  had  been, 
that  I  would  give  you  this  chance?  I'd  have 
killed  you  for  a  thief!" 

The  Duke  broke  in  gently.  "Mary,  my  dear," 
he  said,  patting  her  hand,  "may  I  speak 
for  you?"  She  nodded,  immovable  otherwise. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       103 

Turning  to  the  two  men,  his  demeanor  hardening, 
he  said  with  perfect  courtesy,  but  coldly : 

''Neither  of  you  sees  where  he  is  drifting,  and 
both  of  you,  I  think,  are  reckoning  without  the 
only  important  consideration — the  consent  of 
Lady  Stanhope  herself.  She  will  never  consent, 
either  to  divorce,  or  to  remarriage.  Why  should 
she?  There  are  no  grounds  for  divorce,  and  it 
cannot  be  forced  upon  her !  Why  should  she  give 
up  rank,  home,  husband,  position,  a  safe  and  dig- 
nified life,  and  all  those  things  she  is  accustomed 
to  and  go  into  voluntary  exile,  for  a  sudden  im- 
pulse of  the  heart?  You  must  be  mad,  Stanhope, 
to  suppose  it  for  a  minute!  But  if  you  do  seri- 
ously mean  to  threaten  her  with  it,  if  you  try 
to  force  this  issue,  there  are  those  who  love  and 
honor  your  wife,  who  will  resent  it  for  her, 
among  whom  I  stand  first!  I  will  see  that  she 
is  protected,  vindicated,  restored,  by  every  means 
in  my  power.  Because  you  are  trying  to  take  an 
unfair  advantage  of  her;  it  is  not  playing  the 
game!"  He  turned  with  gleaming  eyes  to  the 
other.  "And  you,  Carmichael,  you  are  not  play- 
ing it,  either.  You  have  no  place  in  either  of 
these  lives;  how  did  you  get  here!  It  wasn't 
cricket;  it  won't  do!  But  since  you  are  here, 
you  must  thwart  this  purpose,  this  idea,  for  your 
own  sake  as  well  as  hers.  A  hint  of  scandal  con- 
necting your  names  is  enough  to  spoil  your  career, 
if  your  political  enemies  get  hold  of  it.  The  real 


104       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

scandal  such  as  your  marriage  following  divorce 
would  be — would  ruin  you!  Your  party  would 
not  return  you;  you  would  be  defeated;  it  would 
mean  social  disgrace  and  exile.  Are  these  things 
fit  offerings  for  the  woman  you  love!  That  de- 
feat, that  exile,  she  would  share!  How  would 
they  compensate  her  for  all  that  she  would  lose 
through  you?  You  see  it  won't  do,  Carmichael. 
It  isn't  playing  the  game!" 

The  Duke  turned  away,  feeling  he  had  done  his 
utmost.  He  was  breathing  excitedly  as  he  re- 
joined Mary  at  the  window.  Her  eyes  thanked 
him,  but  she  did  not  speak.  There  was  a  silence 
in  the  room,  each  mind  busy  with  its  own  set  of 
visions.  Through  Carmichael 's  passed  rapidly 
a  succession  of  concrete  pictures  called  up  by  the 
Duke's  words.  The  West  End  and  the  life  he 
knew,  clubs,  dinners,  promotion  in  his  own  profes- 
sion— which  had  been  everything  to  him,  until  he 
met  Mary  Stanhope — retreated  from  his  sight. 
He  knew  that  the  Duke  was  right.  He  realized  it 
suddenly  and  was  appalled.  He  had  neither  cap- 
ital nor  income  above  a  bare  two  hundred  pounds 
a  year.  How  could  they  live  on  that — and 
where?  not  even  in  Ireland.  It  would  mean 
emigration,  the  seeking  of  new  fields,  new  work, 
and  utterly  changed  life — exile,  in  short,  as  the 
Duke  had  said.  Yet,  realizing  these  things,  he 
discounted  them  all  before  the  trouble  in  the  face 
he  loved,  which  he  had  loved  with  a  torturing 
hunger  since  they  had  first  pronounced  each 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       105 

other's  Christian  names.  Just  to  see  her,  as  she 
stood  there  with  the  morning  sun  on  her  fair, 
brown  hair  and  that  tired,  enduring  look  under  the 
eyes,  was  to  call  to  his  tenderness  and  chivalry. 
There  came  a  moment,  big  in  inner  significance, 
when  a  moving  procession  of  pictures  stamped 
themselves  on  the  film  of  his  mind.  He  saw  him- 
self go  step  by  step  from  honor  to  honor,  saw  prize 
after  prize  to  which  he  might  attain,  which  had 
been  until  then  the  end  and  aim  of  his  whole  am- 
bition; and  there  followed  on  the  heels  of  that 
moment  another,  when  he  felt  his  ambition  fall, 
struck  through  with  a  force  that  hurt — and  healed 
— at  once.  From  the  depths  of  that  stricken  mo- 
ment, something  fine  in  him  rose  and  triumphed. 
He  turned  to  Mary  with  a  new  look,  a  look  which 
even  she  who  knew  him  at  his  best  had  never  seen 
in  his  face  before. 

"All  that  the  Duke  says  is  true,"  he  acknowl- 
edged. "I  have  nothing  to  offer  you  in  com- 
parison with  what  you  would  give  up  for  me. 
Yet  if  you  will  give  it  up,  if  you  will  dare  to  ac- 
cept the  different  circumstances,  the  different 
fate,  I  promise  you  the  love  and  devotion  of  all 
my  life." 

The  words  were  spoken  so  simply,  so  almost 
apologetically,  that  it  took  from  them  any  sug- 
gestion of  effect  other  than  that  of  entire  sincer- 
ity. Mary's  eyes  shone  radiantly  upon  her  lover 
for  an  instant  in  acknowledgment,  before  she 
turned  away.  Her  husband's,  on  the  contrary, 


106      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

contracted  painfully,  and  he  surveyed  Carmichael 
with  a  look  that  was  like  a  knife-thrust. 

"  You  waited  so  long  to  make  your  fine  speech," 
he  said,  with  cutting  emphasis,  "that  I  began  to 
think  you  couldn't  afford  it." 

A  hot  red  showed  in  Philip  Carmichael 's  cheek, 
but  before  he  could  answer,  Mary  Stanhope  came 
forward  with  decision.  There  was  that  in  her 
attitude  which  held  them  silent,  a  nobility,  aloof 
and  detached  from  their  excitement,  as  though 
she  saw  things  from  a  higher  plane,  which  made 
them  look  small. 

"It  is  I,"  she  said  clearly,  "who  cannot  afford 
it,  not  for  fear  of  disgrace  or  exile,  or  any  of 
those  things  you  mention,  Duke.  That  disgrace, 
that  exile,  I  would  share  gladly,  welcoming  it  as 
a  proof  of  what  love  is  worth,  if  it  is  right.  But 
it  is  not,  in  this  case.  The  proposal  you  make  to 
me, ' '  she  turned  to  her  husband  without  speaking 
his  name,  "outrages  me  in  every  instinct,  in 
every  principle.  I  will  not  permit  you  to  do  me 
this  wrong.  I  shall  not  try  to  prevent  your  sep- 
arating from  me  if  you  wish.  But  I  will  not 
divorce  you,  nor  will  I  marry  again  should  you 
succeed  in  divorcing  me." 

She  turned  with  a  fine,  formal  pride  to  Car- 
michael. "I  thank  you  for  your  chivalrous  offer, 
but  I  could  not  be  a  burden  in  any  man's  life, 
even  under  happier  circumstances. ' ' 

"You  could  never  be  that,"  said  Carmichael 
quickly. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       107 

"No,"  said  Sir  Arthur  quietly,  "you  could 
never  be  anything  but  a  blessing. ' ' 

The  Duke  made  a  movement  of  weariness  and 
disgust.  "Faugh!  It  is  like  a  French  farce. 
It's  too  bizarre  for  words!  The  husband  recom- 
mending the  wife  to  her  lover!  Stanhope,  the 
position  you  take  in  this  matter  is  beyond  be- 
lief!" 

Sir  Arthur  controlled  himself.  "I  do  not  ex- 
pect you  to  understand  it,"  he  replied,  "I  do  not 
expect  Lady  Stanhope  to,  yet.  But  she  will.  It 
is  the  position  of  absolute  sincerity,  against 
hypocrisy  and  convention.  I  cannot,  for  my  part, 
understand  how  two  people  can  go  on  living  a 
lie,  once  they  have  discovered  it  is  a  lie,  shameful 
shams  to  themselves  and  all  the  world !  But  you 
don't  see  things  like  that.  Well,  I'm  sorry;  but 
this  is  her  problem  and  mine.  She'll  see  it  as  I 
do  soon,  and  meantime  I  think  Mr.  Cannichael 
already  does." 

"I  do,"  Philip  answered  quickly.  "But  I  wait 
for  Lady  Stanhope.  We  are  entirely  in  her 
hands." 

"I  have  answered  you,"  she  said. 

"And  you  have  reached  a  deadlock!"  the  Duke 
exclaimed.  "Break  it,  Carmichael;  you  are  the 
only  one  who  can.  Withdraw  from  the  problem, 
and  there  is  none.  Don't  you  see?  Play  the 
game!" 

The  schoolboy  phrase  was  most  compelling. 
Philip  Carmichael  smarted  under  it. 


108       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"I'll  play  it  my  own  way!"  he  retorted  fiercely. 
"No  one  can  force  me  into  any  position  against 
my  will,  and  I  recognize  only  Lady  Stanhope's! 
Mary,"  he  went  a  step  toward  her,  "for  all  our 
sakes,  end  this!  Let  us  know  for  good  and  all 
where  we  stand!" 

"I  have  already  told  you." 

"But  think  again  before  you  let  it  pass,  for- 
ever," he  urged.  "No  one  can  do  your  thinking 
for  you;  we  can  only  point  out  what  your  life 
will  be  either  way  you  decide  it.  Think  what  it 
will  be  here,  in  your  own  environment,  with  your 
husband — with  this  thing  between  you.  And 
then  think  what  it  would  be  with  me  under  other 
conditions — poorer  and  harder — but  surely  more 
honest,  more  real?  I  don't  want  to  influence  you 
against  your  own  judgment.  Perhaps  it  is  bet- 
ter that  I  say  no  more,  since  it  is  obvious  that 
the  benefit  is  so  entirely  on  my  side,  if  you  decide 
to  let  the  divorce  take  place,  and  marry  me." 

There  was  a  hostile  admiration  in  Sir  Arthur's 
look  as  he  listened,  and  he  turned  to  note  the  ef- 
fect of  Carmichael's  words  upon  his  wife.  Her 
expression  was  beautiful  with  understanding,  as 
she  answered  him,  as  if  they  two  were  alone. 

"Do  you  think  I  don't  appreciate,  Philip,  what 
you  would  give  up  for  me ?  Do  you  think  I  don 't 
see,  clearer  than  you  do,  what  it  would  mean  to 
you? — the  sacrifice  of  your  whole  career!  And 
do  you  think  I  am  the  sort  of  woman  who  could 
accept  such  a  sacrifice!" 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       109 

"It  is  not  a  sacrifice.    I  need  you." 

"Ah!"  The  light  in  her  eyes  dimmed  for  an 
instant,  then  shone  out  clear  again,  as  she  con- 
tinued impetuously:  "If  anything  in  the  world 
could  change  me,  that  could!  It  is  so  wonderful 
to  be  'needed' !  And  I  would  give  myself  to  your 
need  in  any  hardship,  if  it  were  right,  if  it  were 
only  right!"  She  controlled  her  deep  feeling 
with  visible  effort,  and  after  a  moment  added 
quietly:  "But  it  is  not.  That  is  all  there  is  to 
be  said.  And  now  you  must  go.  This  is  good- 
by." 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him,  standing 
very  strong  in  her  own  strength,  in  the  middle 
of  the  room. 

In  the  tense  silence  that  followed,  the  veins  in 
Sir  Arthur's  temples  stood  out  like  cords.  The 
Duke  heard  his  own  heart  beat.  Carmichael 
slowly  took  the  offered  hand,  held  it  dumbly  for 
an  instant,  then  started  to  go.  Before  he  reached 
the  door  something  like  a  bomb  exploded  in  Sir 
Arthur's  brain.  His  face  turned  purple,  his 
hands  gripped  the  back  of  the  chair  on  which  they 
rested  as  if  he  would  hurl  it  at  CarmichaePs  head. 
His  strong  control  gave  way  to  frenzied  anger. 

'  *  Wait ! "  he  shouted.  ' '  Wait !  This  cannot  be 
settled  so!  You  fools!  You  hypocrites,  cheat- 
ing God  and  yourselves!  I  demand  of  you  both 
a  better  courage  to  face  this  issue!" 

His  wife's  eyes  flamed  into  his  own. 

"If  we  had  gone  the  whole  length  of  sin  you 


110       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

could  not  demand  more  of  us!"  she  said,  in  a 
white  heat  of  anger.  "I  refuse  any  longer  to 
be  subjected  to  this ;  I  refuse — I  refuse !  Let  me 
pass!" 

"Arthur!"  gasped  the  Duke,  aghast  at  the  sud- 
den madness  in  Stanhope's  face.  "Arthur,  they 
have  done  no  wrong!" 

"No  wrong?"  he  shouted,  and  laughed  with  a 
horrible  sound.  "No,  by  God!  The  cowards!" 

Before  any  one  could  prevent  him,  he  had  taken 
his  wife  by  the  throat.  Carmichael  was  at  her 
side  in  a  flash,  and  Sir  Arthur's  left  hand  caught 
him  also  by  the  throat.  He  held  them  both. 

"No  wrong?"  he  said  again.  "You  have  only 
taken  her  love ;  take  also  the  woman ! ' '  He  flung 
them  both  violently  from  him,  and  his  glare  was 
savage  as  he  turned  it  upon  Carmichael.  "Go!" 
he  said,  "go,  and  never  come  in  my  sight  again 
in  this  house  or  any  other,  for  as  sure  as  you  do, 
by  God,  I'll  do  my  best  to  k— " 

The  word  died  in  his  throat  inarticulate.  His 
aspect  became  awful,  the  face  contorted  and  fixed 
in  the  same  way  his  wife  had  seen  it  last  night, 
only  far  more  horribly.  With  a  frightened  gasp 
she  was  at  his  side  in  an  instant,  the  Duke  spring- 
ing to  her  assistance  in  another.  They  were  too 
late,  however,  to  catch  the  strong  figure  and  pre- 
vent it  from  falling.  Carmichael,  whose  Irish 
blood  was  thoroughly  up,  fell  back  dazedly  before 
the  prostrate  form. 

"Help  me  move  him  to  the  sofa,"  said  the 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       111 

Duke  sharply.  "It's  a  slight  shock,  I  think. 
Unfasten  his  collar,  Mary,  so  that  he  can  breathe. 
Carmichael,  telephone  for  Doctor  Nelson. " 

Shaken  as  they  were  by  the  scene  through 
which  they  had  just  passed,  they  yet  obeyed  like 
soldiers.  Mary  and  the  Duke  worked  over  Sir 
Arthur,  trying  to  restore  consciousness  by  all 
the  expedients  which  lie  in  the  knowledge  of 
the  ordinary  person.  Yet  when  Carmichael  re- 
turned, after  some  minutes,  there  was  no  change 
in  the  terrible  rigidity  of  the  figure,  and  not  a 
muscle  of  the  contorted  face  had  relaxed. 

"The  doctor  wasn't  in,"  he  said.  "They 
didn't  know  where  they  could  find  him,  as  he  is 
on  his  rounds.  I  left  word  for  him  to  come  the 
moment  he  returns. ' ' 

"Eight!"  said  the  Duke  shortly.  "Meantime, 
you'd  better  not  be  here,  in  case  Sir  Arthur  re- 
vives. No,  there  isn't  anything  you  can  do, 
thanks,  except — " 

"I  will  go,"  said  Carmichael  quietly.  "You 
will  let  me  know,  Mary,  if  you  need  me?"  She 
nodded  without  looking  at  him,  and  he  left  reluc- 
tantly. 

It  was  a  long  hour  after  that,  when,  as  they 
worked  over  him,  almost  giving  up  hope,  they 
saw  Sir  Arthur's  face  relax,  and  he  fought  his 
way  feebly  back  to  sane  consciousness. 

"What  is  it — what — has  happened!"  he  asked 
rather  thickly,  attempting  to  rise. 

"Never  mind  now,"  said  the  Duke  cheerily, 


112       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

pushing  him  back  again.  "You  gave  Mary  and 
me  quite  a  scare.  Better  be  still  now  for  a  time. 
Dr.  Nelson  will  be  here  shortly.  Mary  sent  for 
him." 

"Nonsense!  Don't  need  him.  Just  need — lit- 
tle air — and  movement— don't  feel  as  if  I  could 
move.  Strange!"  He  took  his  head  in  his 
hands.  "Got  a  queer  full  feeling  here."  He 
was  slowly  getting  up.  "Is  that  brandy,  Mary? 
Yes,  give  me  some — a  good  stiff  drink." 

She  obeyed,  watching  him  anxiously,  while 
the  Duke  concealed  his  apprehension  admirably, 
sauntering  to  the  window,  but  anxiously  scanning 
the  street  for  a  sign  of  the  doctor. 

"That's  better,"  said  Sir  Arthur,  as  he  put 
down  the  empty  glass.  "Puts  new  heart  into 
one.  Sorry  to  have  frightened  you,  my  dear." 
He  was  speaking  in  his  ordinary  voice,  with  no 
trace  of  anger  or  excitement,  but  thickly  and  jerk- 
ily. 

"Very  tiresome  of  me.  I  must  get  Nelson  to 
put  an  end  to  these  little  attacks.  Can't  think 
why  I  should  have  one." 

"Do  they  occur  often?"  asked  the  Duke  casu- 
ally. 

"No,  not  often.  Had  a  queer  feeling  in  my 
head  yesterday,  I  remember;  meant  to  have  seen 
Nelson,  but  forgot  it.  Can't  think  what  brought 
this  on."  He  passed  his  hand  slowly  over  his 
brow. 

"Don't  try."    His  wife's  cool  fingers  rested 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       113 

for  a  moment  on  his  head,  and  he  reached  up  and 
held  them  there. 

"That's  right,  I  won't.  I'm  quite  well  now, 
my  dear  girl.  Don't  worry  any  more.  What 
time  is  it?  Good  Lord!  I  must  be  on  my  way 
to  the  House." 

"Oh  no!"  she  said  almost  beseechingly.  "I 
don't  think  you  ought.  Let  it  go  for  once.  It's 
more  important  that  you  should  save  your 
strength. ' ' 

"Nonsense!  Besides,  I  must  go.  There's  a 
measure  coming  up  for  discussion  this  afternoon 
on  which  I  want  to  speak.  It's— 

"Well,  then,  wait  at  least  till  Dr.  Nelson 
comes!"  she  entreated.  "He  won't  be  long,  I'm 
sure." 

"But  I'm  all  right,  I  tell  you."  He  stood  up 
and  patted  her  cheek.  "I  appreciate  your  solici- 
tude, Mary,  but  there 's  really  no  reason  to  worry. 
Tell  Nelson,  if  he  comes,  that  I'll  see  him  be- 
fore dinner — or,  if  it  would  relieve  your  mind, 
send  him  after  me.  Now  ring  for  my  things  like 
a  good  girl,  and  don't  argue  any  more.  If  I  must 
go,  I  must." 

She  saw  it  was  useless  to  try  to  keep  him. 

"I'll  come  with  you,"  said  the  Duke,  to  her 
great  relief.  Tacitly  they  both  understood  that, 
by  some  merciful  providence,  he  seemed  not  to 
remember  the  scene  through  which  they  had  just 
passed.  Also  they  realized  that  he  must  be 
guarded  and  protected  from  the  memory  of  it  for 


114       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

a  time.     She  saw  them  ready  to  depart,  with  a 
feeling  of  apprehension.    At  the  last  moment,  she 
came  and  stood  gently  beside  him,  her  hand  on 
his  arm,  looking  up  at  him  wistfully. 
11  You '11  come  back  early,  Arthur,  won't  you!" 
He     kissed     her     cheek     affectionately.    "Of 
course  I  will,  dear  girl,  if  you  wish  it.    There, 
we  must  be  off.     Good-by. ' ' 

She  saw  them  both  get  into  the  waiting  motor 
and  waved  her  hand,  but  as  they  whirled  out  of 
sight  a  chill  seemed  to  creep  over  her  heart,  and 
she  went  back  to  her  little  sitting-room,  shivering 
in  the  sunlight. 


CHAPTER  Vin 

"Let  it  lie  where  it  fell  far  from  the  living  sun. 
The  past,  that  goodly  once,  is  gone  and  dead  and  done." 

W.  E.  HENLEY. 

HOW  the  next  few  hours  passed,  Mary 
Stanhope  never  clearly  remembered. 
Her  cheerful  room  looked  strange  to  her, 
because  of  the  extraordinary  scene  which  had 
taken  place  in  it.  The  familiar  aspect  of  her 
life,  too,  was  distorted  from  its  tranquillity. 
Never  again  could  it  be  the  same.  Never  again 
could  she  look  ahead  to  years  of  serene  self-ad- 
justment to  her  environment,  as  it  had  been. 
Vainly  she  tried  to  picture  it,  to  imagine  what 
their  life  would  be,  hers  and  her  husband's,  but 
she  could  not  see  one  step  beyond  the  present 
moment.  The  forces  which  had  been  loosed  upon 
them  all,  like  wild  beasts  coming  up  from  hidden 
caverns  in  their  natures,  had  totally  destroyed 
her  peace,  her  innate  harmony  of  thought  and 
action.  She  had  an  odd  prescience  that  nothing 
could  set  her  world  in  order  again  but  a  shock 
as  great  as  that  which  had  disrupted  it. 

Finally,  in  exhaustion,  she  sank  down  on  the 
chintz-covered  couch  of  the  morning-room,  draw- 
ing up  first  one  foot  then  the  other,  as  her  strain, 
nervous  and  mental,  relaxed  a  little.  She  did  not 


116      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

sleep,  for  behind  her  shut  eyes  her  brain  was 
torturing  her,  laying  question  after  question  like 
a  lash  on  her  naked  heart.  How  was  it  possible 
that  she  could  have  become  involved  in  such 
scenes  as  she  had  lived  through  in  the  last  twenty- 
four  hours!  How  could  she  face  either  of  these 
men  again?  And  how,  oh,  how,  could  she  bear 
the  rest  of  her  life? 

It  must  have  been  about  two  hours  after  the 
Duke  and  Sir  Arthur  had  left  the  house,  that  her 
maid,  Dawes,  knocked  softly  at  the  door  of  the 
morning-room  and  entered. 

"Are  you  awake,  my  Lady?  Ah,  yes!  Will 
you  have  tea  brought  in  here?" 

''Yes,"  answered  Mary  dully,  sitting  up. 
"But  first,  my  hair — and  give  me  a  tea-gown— 
any  one;  I  am  alone." 

She  resumed  her  usual  habits  perfunctorily. 
In  her  bedroom  adjoining  she  changed  from  her 
morning  blouse  and  skirt,  unthinkingly,  to  the 
soft  white  gown  Dawes  brought  her,  and  sub- 
mitted to  the  maid's  deft  fingers  as  they  rear- 
ranged her  hair. 

"Thanks,"  she  said  at  last,  "that  will  do. 
Yes,  you  may  bring  me  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  morn- 
ing-room. And  tell  Turnbull  I'm  not  at  home 
to  any  one." 

Dawes  departed  to  give  these  orders.  A  mo- 
ment later  there  came  a  loud  ring  at  the  door- 
bell. Some  instinct  made  Mary  stop  in  her  walk 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       117 

up  and  down  the  room  and  wait  impatiently  for 
word  to  be  brought  her. 

"Well!"  she  said,  as  Dawes  re-entered. 

4 'Oh,  your  Ladyship,  it's  Mr.  Baldwin,  and  he 
says  he  must  see  you — he — " 

' '  Send  him  up  at  once ! ' '  Her  peremptory  tone 
astonished  her  own  ears.  Dawes  vanished. 
Mary  stood  with  her  hands  pressed  against  her 
heart  as  if  to  hold  it  still,  her  face  straining  to- 
ward the  door — waiting.  It  seemed  an  eternity 
before  she  heard  his  step. 

"Ben!"  she  said  sharply,  as  he  entered,  and 
then  in  a  whisper:  "What  is  it?" 

He  came  quickly  to  her  and  took  both  her  hands 
firmly  in  his  strong  ones. 

"Mary,"  he  said  very  gently,  "they  have  sent 
me  to  break  some  bad  news  to  you.  The  quick 
way  is  the  merciful  one  always,  isn't  it?" 

She  just  breathed :     '  <  Philip  ? ' ' 

"No.    It's — it's  your  husband,  Mary." 

She  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  "Oh!  he's 
had  another  of  those  attacks!  They  are  dread- 
ful, but  they  are  curable.  That's  not  so  very  bad, 
Ben;  don't  look  so  solemn!"  She  was  rallying 
all  her  forces,  and  he  felt  it.  "I  thought  it  was 
something  much  worse — an  accident — or — some- 
thing. But  these  attacks  I've  seen  before.  I 
know  what  to  do.  Ring.  We  must  have  the 
motor  at  once  and  bring  him  home.  Where  is 
he?' 


118      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

' '  They  are  bringing  him. ' ' 

She  turned  swiftly  to  him.  "Bringing  him?" 
she  said,  with  a  strange  clutch  at  the  heart. 

"He  is  unconscious.  The  doctor  is  with  him. 
He  arrived  soon  after  it  happened.  The  Duke 
wouldn't  leave  him.  He  sent  me  ahead  to  tell 
you — Mary,  can  you  bear  it! — that  it  is  very 
serious. " 

After  a  moment  she  spoke  out  of  a  strange 
calm.  "Is  he — dead!" 

"No,"  said  Ben  quickly.     "No,  thank  God." 

"Thank  God!"  she  echoed.  Then  almost  im- 
mediately she  asked:  "How  did  it  happen! 
Were  you  there!" 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "I  was  there,  in  the 
visitors'  gallery  with  Lady  Kitty.  We  saw  Sir 
Arthur  rise  to  speak.  He  looked  much  as  usual, 
when  suddenly—  '  he  stopped. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  straining  forward,  "yes,  go 
on,  Ben.  What  brought  it  on!" 

He  was  silent,  full  of  anxious  pity  for  her. 
Then,  his  kind  face  full  of  trouble,  he  answered: 
"The  Duke  said  I  was  to  tell  you  anything  you 
wanted  to  know ;  he  said  it  would  be  the  best  way 
to  prepare  you,  but  it  is  difficult,  Mary!" 

Her  eyes  never  left  his  face,  and  her  thought 
leaped  ahead  of  his  halting  words. 

1 1  Ben — answer !    Did  they  meet ! '  * 

"They  hadn't  time.  Sir  Arthur,  in  the  midst 
of  his  speech,  saw  Philip  enter.  It  seemed  as  if 
his  eyes  would  burst  out  of  his  head. .  He  pointed 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      119 

at  him,  and  said — terrible  things,  Mary!  I  can't 
repeat  them.  The  whole  House  heard  them.  It 
was  awful!  He  tried  to  reach — Philip.  I  think 
he  would  have  killed  him.  There  was  a  com- 
motion— the  Duke  tried  to  stop  him — and  then — 
quite  suddenly — he  was  stricken  where  he  stood. ' ' 
He  had  put  his  arm  under  hers,  and  she  leaned 
upon  it  for  support,  while  her  other  hand  shielded 
her  face  from  his  pitying  eyes.  He  continued: 
"When  I  got  there,  almost  at  once,  the  Duke 
seized  me  and  sent  me  off  to  you.  He  said  that 
it  was  better  you  should  know  the  truth.  He 
said  youM  take  it  standing." 

"Thank  you.  Yes.  Yes,  of  course."  She 
roused  herself  with  a  strong  effort  of  the  will. 
"What  can  I  do  for  him— for  Arthur?  That's 
what  I  must  think  of  now." 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Ben  gently,  patting  her 
hand  awkwardly,  "there  isn't  much  to  do,  dear." 

Her  startled  eyes  darkened  with  dread  of  the 
thought  behind  his  words,  but  before  she  could 
speak,  there  came  to  them  both  a  strange  sound 
— a  sound  which  they  who  have  heard  the  like, 
never  forget.  There  was  a  murmur  of  the 
lowered  voices  of  men,  and  the  careful  tread  of 
those  who  carry  something  heavy. 

For  a  moment,  Ben  thought  she  would  faint. 
Then  she  freed  herself  from  his  supporting  arm, 
and  stood  alone,  her  head  very  high. 

"There  they  are,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  must 
go."  At  the  door  she  turned.  "Thank  you  for 


120       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

telling  me  the  truth,"  she  said,  and  passed  out 
of  his  sight. 

Sir  Arthur  lay  in  his  great  bed,  breathing 
heavily,  and  unconscious  still.  The  Duke  and 
Doctor  Nelson  were  with  him,  the  others  having 
been  put  out  of  the  room.  The  two  men  stood 
together  near  a  little  table  where  the  doctor  was 
mixing  some  medicine. 

4 'No,  there's  nothing  you  can  do,"  he  said, 
in  answer  to  the  Duke's  anxious  inquiry,  "except 
answer  me  some  questions,  quickly.  You  say  he 
had  an  attack.  What  sort  of  an  attack?  What 
brought  it  on?" 

The  Duke  hesitated.  "A  fit  of  great  anger," 
he  said,  after  a  second. 

"Ah!  Had  he  been  complaining  of  any 
strange  feeling  in  the  head  before  that  fit  of 
anger?" 

"Really,  I  don't  know;  I  wasn't  with  him  long 
before — yes,  I  do  remember;  he  said  after  he  re- 
covered, before  he  went  to  the  House,  that  he 
had  had  a  'full  feeling'  yesterday,  and  that  he 
had  meant  to  see  you  about  it,  but  forgot." 

"Ah!"  said  the  doctor  again.  "What  brought 
it  on  yesterday?" 

"Why,  really,  I  don't  know.  I  hadn't  seen  him 
for  a  week  or  so,  until  last  night." 

"You  don't  know  whether  he  had  been  worry- 
ing over  anything  serious,  or  had  any  kind  of  a 
shock?" 


Through  the  Duke's  mind  passed  the  memory 
of  Sir  Arthur's  face  as  he  had  stood  by  the  al- 
cove where  he  had  seen  his  wife  disappear  with 
Philip  Carmichael.  He  shuddered  as  he  remem- 
bered his  laugh,  the  laugh  which  had  tried  val- 
iantly to  pretend.  The  doctor  was  waiting  for 
his  answer. 

"  Well,  I  hardly  think  you  could  call  it  a  shock," 
he  said  reluctantly.  ''Just  a — well,  it  was  like  a 
bit  of  bad  news." 

"What  did  you  do  for  him?" 

"What  any  man  would;  gave  him  a  good  stiff 
whiskey  and  soda. ' ' 

"Worst  thing  in  the  world  for  him.  I  suppose 
you  did  the  same  for  him  to-day,  before  he  left 
for  the  House?" 

"Yes;  brandy  and  soda." 

The  doctor  sighed  impatiently.  "That  helped 
on  the  trouble  a  good  bit.  And  then  he  caught 
sight  of  Mr.  Carmichael,  who  had  been  connected 
with  his  previous  fit  of  anger  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"When  he  left  for  the  House  you  say  he  was 
quite  composed  ?  He  seemed  not  to  remember  his 
late  rage?" 

"I'm  quite  sure  he  didn't  remember  anything 
about  it.  It's  strange,  isn't  it?" 

They  both  turned  at  an  odd  sound  from  the 
bed.  Sir  Arthur  was  breathing  very  heavily, 
with  terrible  difficulty.  It  was  painful  to  hear. 

"Is  he  suffering,  Doctor?" 


122      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"No,  he's  unconscious.  That's  what  we  call 
staircase  breathing,  and  it  means — oh,  if  only  he 
had  not  seen  Cannichael  again,  if  only  he  hadn't 
had  that  second  attack  of  rage ! ' '  There  was  the 
regret  of  professional  skill  baffled  by  circum- 
stances too  hard  for  it,  in  the  doctor's  voice. 

Neither  of  them,  in  their  pre-occupation,  had 
seen  the  door  open.  Mary  Stanhope  stood  on  the 
threshold  which  separated  her  rooms  from  her 
husband's,  just  as  she  had  stood  last  night — was 
it  only  last  night? — when  Sir  Arthur  had  said: 
"There!  Don't  worry.  Go  to  sleep.  Yes,  so 
will  I.  You'll  see — it  will  all  come  right."  She 
had  heard  the  doctor's  words,  and  as  if  in  a 
dream,  she  heard  the  Duke  say: 

"You  mean  if  he  hadn't  had  the  second  at- 
tack?" 

The  doctor  nodded  curtly.  "Yes;  we  might 
have  pulled  him  through  the  first,  with  care;  but 
the  second — it's  done  for  us,  Duke.  It's  cerebral 
hemorrhage. ' ' 

"Good  God!    You  mean—" 

"I  mean  he  will  never  speak  again,  and  prob- 
ably won't  live  the  night  out.  The  heart  will  go 
on  for  a  few  hours — but  the  brain — has  stopped." 

There  was  a  gasp  from  the  doorway,  and  they 
turned  in  dismay.  Mary  Stanhope  stood  there 
in  dumb  anguish,  with  eyes  dilated  with  dread. 

"Don't  say  it!"  she  said  hoarsely.  "Don't, 
don't,  Doctor,  it  can't  be  true!  We  must  do 
something.  Oh,  can't  you  do  something?"  She 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       123 

stretched  appealing  arms  across  the  bed  to  the 
physician  on  the  other  side. 

"My  poor  lady,"  he  said  very  gently  and  sadly, 
"if  you  only  knew  how  often  I  hear  those  words !" 

"0  God!"  she  said,  her  head  buried  at  the  side 
of  the  bed,  and  rocking  from  side  to  side  like  one 
distraught.  "O  God,  do  something  for  us! 
Don't  let  this  be.  I  can't  bear  it — I  can't  bear 
it!  It's  all  my  fault,  but  I  didn't  know — I  didn't 
know!  Pity  and  forgive!  There  should  be  time 
allowed — to  make  up — but  not  this — not  this — 
not  to  go  like  this ! ' ' 

Her  extended  hands  were  clutching  at  the 
counterpane,  and  her  eyes  were  wild  as  the  doctor 
raised  her  and  said  with  authority:  "Calm 
yourself,  control  yourself,  Lady  Stanhope,  I  beg 
of  you.  We  shall  need  you — all  your  resources 
and  strength." 

He  had  placed  his  finger  on  the  right  note.  It 
always  responded  in  Mary  Stanhope.  Whoever 
needed  her  had  but  to  ask.  In  a  moment  she  had 
forced  herself  to  quietude,  beating  back  for  a 
time  the  anguish  that  would  overwhelm  her  in 
other,  freer  hours. 

"What  must  I  do?"  she  asked  apathetically. 

' '  Best, ' '  said  the  doctor  promptly.  ' '  I  will  give 
you  a  sedative.  You  have  a  hard  night  before 
you. ' ' 

"I  have  rested.  I  don't  want  a  sedative.  I  am 
ready  for  the  night — as  I  am.  Oh,  isn't  there  any- 
thing I  can  do?" 


124       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"I  telegraphed  for  a  nurse.  She  will  be  here 
directly,  but — dear  Lady  Stanhope,  try  to  bear  the 
truth — there  isn't  anything  any  one  can  do." 

The  Duke  went  quickly  to  her,  and  put  his  arm 
around  her.  She  leaned  her  head  back  against 
his  shoulder  with  shut  eyes,  and  for  several 
minutes  there  was  no  sign  of  movement,  nor 
sound  in  the  room  except  the  breathing  of  the 
dying  man,  now  faint,  now  difficult  and  loud. 
Finally  she  said,  recovering,  and  facing  them  both 
with  a  great  simplicity : 

"Then,  if  that  is  so,  I  beg  of  you  both — to  leave 
us  alone — together. ' ' 

The  last  word  died  in  a  whisper.  It  was  inde- 
scribably pathetic.  "Together" — they  two,  who 
were  already  so  far  apart,  the  6ne  going  toward 
Death,  the  other  toward  Life. 

"We  will  be  within  call,"  said  Doctor  Nelson, 
as  they  withdrew.  Outside  he  said  to  the  Duke: 
* '  It  will  be  a  merciful  interlude.  Poor  lady,  she  is 
of  an  intensely  emotional  and  nervous  temper- 
ament ;  it  is  best  to  give  her  time  to  grasp  the  ca- 
lamity by  herself  and  quietly. ' ' 

The  Duke  found  Ben  Baldwin  waiting  in  the 
morning-room,  where  Mary  had  left  him. 

"Ben,"  he  said  heavily,  using  the  Christian 
name  for  the  first  time,  and  not  noticing  it,  "she 
knows  he  can't  live  the  night  through.  Will  you 
stay  to  be  within  call  if  needed?  I  must  go  to  my 
wife  and  Kitty.  They  will  be  terribly  anxious. 
I'll  come  back  later." 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       125 

"I'll  stay,"  said  Ben,  "of  course." 
The  hours  passed  as  those  terrible  hours  do  in 
a  house  which  the  great  dark  Angel  has  entered 
and  made  his  own.  The  nurse  arrived,  silent  and 
efficient,  full  of  tact,  too.  She  waited,  for  the 
most  part,  out  of  sight  and  sound  of  the  suffering 
woman  crouching  against  the  bed.  The  doctor 
came  in  at  intervals  and  withdrew  again.  Mary 
was  hardly  conscious  of  them,  but  they  were  in- 
tensely conscious  of  her.  She  was  living  over 
again,  in  strong,  vivid  memories,  many  pictures 
of  the  past.  Sometimes  her  eyes  smarted  and 
filled ;  then  the  tears  dried,  and  the  present  reality 
overwhelmed  her.  Always,  out  of  the  jumble  of 
her  thoughts,  she  came  back  to  that  silent  figure  on 
the  bed,  came  back  to  the  obstinate  hope  that  this 
might  not  be  the  end — but  a  new  beginning. 
Sometimes  she  prayed  brokenly,  in  the  inarticulate 
utterance  of  the  heart,  for  time  to  retrieve  their 
blunders;  that  the  terrible  hours  of  the  last  two 
days  might  be  blotted  out  forever,  and  the 
words  and  thoughts  of  them  forgotten.  Once 
Ben  came  to  her  with  a  note,  which  he  put  into 
her  hand,  and  then  left  at  once.  When  she  opened 
it,  she  read:  "Dearest — let  me  know  the  mo- 
ment I  can  be  of  the  least  service,  and  count  on 
my  love  always.  Philip." 

Passionately  she  kissed  the  words,  and  then,  in 
a  horror,  sprang  up  and  crumpled  the  message  in 
her  hand,  thrusting  it  in  her  bosom.  It  had 
brought  back  all  her  agitation,  which  she  had  so 


126      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

nearly  subdued,  and  once  again  her  light,  nervous 
step  went  pacing  from  one  room  to  another  in  ex- 
hausting repetition.  The  agony  of  remorse  that 
tore  her  heart  was  yet  powerless  to  blot  out  the 
thrill  of  relief  and  joy  which  the  message  had 
brought  her.  Here,  in  the  hour  of  her  need,  her 
lover  had  sent  the  only  comfort  tnat  he  could. 
Then  she  hated  herself,  that  at  that  moment,  that 
solemn  and  terrible  moment,  it  should  matter  to 
her.  She  could  bear  her  own  thoughts  no  longer, 
and  opening  the  door  she  called  softly  across  to 
the  morning-room :  *  *  Ben — will  you  come  here  7 ' ' 

"Who  brought  this?"  she  said,  when  he  entered. 

"Philip's  man,  Mary." 

"Has  he  gone?" 

"Yes;  he  said  there  was  no  answer." 

"No,  there  was  no  answer,"  she  repeated  me- 
chanically. "No  answer — no  answer.  Ben,  what 
a  mystery  it  all  is!" 

"Yes." 

"Life — and  love — and  death.    No  answer!" 

* '  No — none. ' ' 

"You  know  it,  too?" 

"Yes— I  know." 

"How  did  you  find  it  out?  Oh,  Ben,  tell  me, 
talk  to  me;  I  don't  want  to  think!  Did  you  love 
some  one,  too?" 

"Yes.     Long  ago." 

"And  that's  why  you  don't  mind,  don't  seem 
to  think  it's  so  wicked — for  us — oh,  I  don't  want 
to  talk  about  that!  Tell  me,  did  she — die?" 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       127 

"No — she  just  didn't  love  me.  There  was 
nothing  romantic  about  it.  She  loved  some  one 
else." 

"Poor  Ben!"  She  laid  a  gentle  hand  for  a  mo- 
ment on  his  arm. 

"I  guess  I  didn't  care  enough,  perhaps,"  he 
went  on,  willing  to  beguile  her  from  her  sadness ; 
"you  have  to  care  a  great  lot,  you  know,  to  win 
out." 

1 '  But  if  you  do  care  '  a  great  lot, '  you  think  you 
can  'win  out'?"  she  asked  with  earnestness. 

"Well,  it's  all  in  the  draw,"  he  answered,  with 
his  droll  smile.  "It  takes  two,  you  know.  Most 
everything's  possible  when  two  care  enough." 

"Think  so?"  She  dropped  into  his  staccato 
vernacular  unconsciously. 

"Sure!  The  way's  cleared  for  them,  unless,  of 
course,  it  hurts  somebody  else." 

"I  think  I'd  rather  be  hurt  than  hurt  any  one 
else;  they  say  you  are  bound  to  be  or  do  one  or 
the  other  in  this  world.  Oh,  what  mysteries  they 
are— those  three  things:  life  and  love  and  death! 
And  the  greatest  of  these  is  death!  And  just 
think — some  time  we  shall  know ! ' ' 

They  stood  silent  a  moment.  Then  she  held  out 
her  hand. 

1 '  Good  night.  Have  they  made  you  comfortable  ? 
Good.  I  feel  better  for  seeing  you,  for  knowing 
you  are  here.  You're  so  sane  and  normal  and 
kind ;  bless  you,  dear  old  Ben!" 

She  went  back  to  her  watch  the  better  for 


128      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

the  little  interlude.  It  was  close  to  mid- 
night, now.  She  got  her  Bible,  and  sat  by 
the  bedside  in  the  softly-shaded  light.  The 
breathing  of  the  unconscious  man  was  more  quiet. 
The  doctor,  who  was  staying  the  night,  had  just 
left  him  and  had  thrown  himself  down  on 
the  couch  in  the  dressing-room  beyond.  Mary 
was  practically  alone.  She  opened  the  Book, 
feeling  a  sense  of  calm  and  strength  from 
the  very  touch  of  it.  The  mark  was  in  the  third 
chapter  of  Ecclesiastes. 

''That  which  hath  been  is  now,  and  that  which 
is  to  be  hath  already  been,  and  God  require th  that 
which  is  past." 

That  which  is  past !  Not  that  which  is  to  come 
only,  but  that  which  is  past,  as  well,  all  of  it.  It 
was  very  still  in  the  house,  solemnly,  strangely 
still.  She  pondered  the  words  until  they  seemed 
to  flap  noisily  about  in  her  brain  like  bats  in  an 
empty  room.  Then,  suddenly,  her  mind  became 
filled  with  the  image  of  her  husband,  not  as  he  lay 
unconscious  on  the  bed  now,  but  as  he  had  looked 
last  night  when  he  had  said:  "God  never  joined 
us  together;  if  He  had,  no  man  could  put  ua 
asunder."  And  then  came  the  thought  of  his 
last  words:  "There,  don't  worry.  You'll  see  it 
will  all  come  right.  Go  to  sleep.  Yes,  so  will  I. ' ' 
He  seemed  to  be  standing  in  the  doorway  there, 
saying  them  now.  "You'll  see  it  will  all  come 
right."  She  turned  toward  the  doorway  as 
though  listening  to  him.  But  he  was  not  there. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       129 

She  turned  back  to  the  bed,  where  the  figure 
lay  quite  still.  What  was  it  she  missed?  Ah,  the 
breath  had  ceased! 

Sir  Arthur  Stanhope  had  passed. 


CHAPTER IX 

"In  the  year  that's  coming  on,  rich  in  joy  and  sorrow, 
We  shall  light  our  lamp,  and  wait  life's,  mysterious  morrow" 

W.  E.  HENLEY. 

SHE  won't  see  him  at  all,"  said  Lady  Kitty 
to  Ben  Baldwin.    "I  don't  know  what  in 
the  world  to  do  for  her — or  with  her.    I'm 
at  my  wits'   end.     She  won't  respond  to   any- 
thing." 

They  were  talking  in  Lady  Kitty 's  little  boudoir 
at  her  uncle 's  house.  The  Duke  and  Duchess  were 
both  there,  and  the  subject  of  their  discussion 
was  Mary,  as  it  was  apt  to  be.  In  the  month  that 
had  elapsed  since  Sir  Arthur's  death  they  had 
talked  of  little  else;  and  Ben  Baldwin,  partly  by 
reason  of  his  old  friendship  for  Lady  Stanhope, 
and  a  good  deal  on  his  own  account  also,  had 
slipped  into  an  intimate  place  in  the  family  cir- 
cle. Mary  turned  to  him  for  help  in  many  ways ; 
Lady  Kitty  found  him  a  "safe"  person  to  "out- 
pour to"  as  she  would  have  said;  while  the  Duke 
of  Northerland  instinctively  recognized  in  him 
those  stable  qualities  by  which  men  trust  each 
other.  Even  the  Duchess,  who  gave  herself  less 
readily  to  new  enthusiasms  than  the  others  of  her 
family,  had  taken  a  warm  liking  to  him,  so  that 
at  the  end  of  his  short  three  months  in  England, 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       131 

Ben  found  himself  on  a  very  unusual  and  intimate 
footing  with  these  people  who  had  been  strangers 
to  him  so  short  a  time  before. 

"Truly,  I'm  in  despair,"  Lady  Kitty  continued. 
"She  simply  wants  to  be  left  alone." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Ben  sensibly,  "why  not 
leave  her  alone?" 

"Because  she  simply  mustn't  be.  She'd  die, 
moping  about  the  way  she  does.  She  must  be 
roused,  brought  out  of  herself." 

"But  how  to  do  it?" 

"Well,  as  uncle  suggested  just  now,  there's  Mr. 
Carmichael.  You'd  think  he'd  be  the  natural 
person  to  do  it.  But  she  won't  even  see  him. 
And  he's  in  despair." 

* '  Yes,  it  is  pretty  hard  on  him, ' '  Ben  agreed. 

1 1  Hard  on  him !  Huh ! ' '  exclaimed  the  Duchess. 
"If  it  hadn't  been  for  him,  there  wouldn't  have 
been  any  trouble.  Sir  Arthur  might  have  been 
alive  to-day!" 

"Oh,  Aunt,  don't!"  Lady  Kitty  implored, 
"don't  say  such  things!" 

1  *  They  are  being  said  by  others  than  me.  And 
they  are  true,"  returned  the  Duchess  grimly. 
Lady  Kitty  moaned,  and  the  Duke  gave  a  troubled 
sigh.  Ben  drummed  nervously  on  the  table. 
Lady  Kitty  broke  the  silence  impetuously. 

"Well,  we  must  stop  such  things  being  said! 
They  may  be  true — a  little — but  they  are  cruelly 
unjust.  Those  two  poor  dears!  It's  awful  that 
people  should  have  it  in  their  power,  just  by  talk- 


132      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

ing,  to  upset  their  lives.  They  don't  deserve  it. 
We  must  all  quash  this  gossip  by  every  means  in 
our  power.  And  we  can,  we're  strong  enough; 
and  Mary's  whole  character  helps.  Besides,  it 
isn't  as  if  they  had  really  done  anything  wrong — " 
she  stopped,  rather  appalled  at  going  so  far. 

" Still,  tongues  have  clacked,"  said  the  Duchess, 
knitting  vigorously  as  her  habit  was,  when  dis- 
turbed, "and  will  clack  for  some  time.  I  don't 
say  it  can't  be  lived  down.  Most  things  can,  if 
it  comes  to  that.  But  that  doesn't  help  us  now." 

"I  don't  think  Carmichael's  part  in  it  can  be 
lived  down,"  said  the  Duke  soberly.  "It's  bound 
to  injure  him  politically,  as  it  probably  has  already 
socially. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  am  not  thinking  of  him!"  exclaimed  the 
Duchess  scornfully. 

"Well,  then,  I  am!"  Lady  Kitty  said  warmly. 
"He  is  a  dear,  decent  fellow,  and  I  like  him,  and 
so  does  Mary;  and  that's  enough  for  me." 

"Kitty!" 

"It's  true,  Aunt.  And  I  don't  see  why  they 
shouldn't  be  happy — even  yet." 

"  Kitty  Carew!" 

"Auntie,  there's  no  use  trying  to  make  me  purr 
when  I  want  to  scratch !  I  must  relieve  my  feel- 
ings somehow.  There  have  been  enough  pent-up 
feelings  around  here  this  season  to  burst  a  bat- 
tle-ship! And  it  isn't  good  for  people.  It  isn't 
good  for  Mary.  We  must  get  her  out  of  it,  get 
her  away." 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       133 

" But  she  won't  go,"  said  the  Duke,  in  a  trou- 
bled voice. 

"She'll  have  to,  soon,"  the  Duchess  replied, 
with  a  sigh.  "Poor  Mary,  she  will  have  very  lit- 
tle left.  Ronald  Stanhope  succeeds  to  everything, 
doesn't  he?" 

"Yes,  but  of  course  he'll  look  out  for  her,"  re- 
turned the  Duke. 

1 1  If  she  '11  take  it. ' '    This  was  from  Lady  Kitty. 

"My  dear,  why  shouldn't  she?  She  has  every 
right." 

"Yes,  but  Mary  takes  odd  notions.  She  is  mor- 
bid, too,  just  now.  You  don't  see  her  as  I  do, 
Aunt.  She  doesn't  talk  of  it,  of  course,  but  she 
goes  about  looking  as  if  she  had  committed  some 
crime  that  God  couldn't  forgive  her  for.  She 
can't  forgive  herself  for  some  imaginary  wrong. 
It  just  goes  straight  to  my  heart  to  see  her  so 
miserable. ' ' 

"It's  so  useless,"  said  the  Duchess,  with  an- 
other sigh. 

"Of  course.  And  she  won't  see  Mr.  Car- 
michael,  or  write  to  him.  And  he's  about  sick 
with  the  suspense  of  it. '  ' 

"Huh!" 

"Aunt,"  said  Lady  Kitty  severely,  "you  al- 
ways seem  to  think  that  women  do  all  the  suffer- 
ing that's  done  in  this  world.  'Tisn't  true  a  bit. 
Men  feel  things  just  as  much  as  we  do!" 

Ben's  mouth  twisted  humorously. 

"Really  now?"  he  said. 


134      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Fine  fat  lot  you  know  about  it!"  sniffed  the 
Duchess. 

"My  dear  Aunt!" 

"I  don't  think  Mr.  Carmichael  matters  in  the 
least.  He's  failed  every  way:  as  a  man,  as  a 
friend,  and,  it's  quite  clear,  as  a  lover.  She  won't 
have  anything  to  do  with  him.  That's  as  it 
should  be.  We  don't  need  to  think  about  him  any 
more.  He's  as  good  as  done  for.  But  we  must 
think  of  her — our  poor  Mary.  Can't  you  suggest 
something,  Mr.  Baldwin?" 

"I've  been  thinking  that  the  best  thing  she 
could  do  would  be  to  go  back  to  America.  It 
would  give  her  a  big  change,  and  I  could  take  her 
over  with  me,  to  my  sister  Jessie,"  Ben  replied. 

"That's  a  capital  idea!"  exclaimed  the  Duke. 

"Poor  Philip  Carmichael!"  said  Lady  Kitty 
softly. 

"Why  do  you  feel  so  sorry  for  him? ".Ben 
asked  curiously. 

She  gave  him  quite  a  fierce  look.  "Because 
they  care  for  each  other,"  she  said.  "And  I 
hate  to  see  real  feeling  going  to  waste!" 

"Well,  I  think  you  are  right,"  he  answered, 
smiling  at  her  pretty  vehemence.  "But  if  it  is 
real,  it  won't  go  to  waste,  be  sure  of  that.  Mean- 
time it  is  hard  on  poor  old  Phil.  It  must  be  dread- 
ful to  face  the  curious  glances  in  the  House 
day  after  day,  and  to  pretend  you  don't  see  or 
hear  the  looks  and  whispers.  And  to  get  nothing 
but  that  out  of  it,  after  all.  I  imagine  his  work 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       135 

— and  his  career — meant  everything  to  him;  and 
it's  had  a  big  setback." 

''It's  had  more  than  that,"  said  the  Duchess 
grimly.  "It's  over." 

"Surely  it  is  not  as  serious  as  that!" 

"Wait  until  the  next  election  and  see,"  she 
answered.  "It  would  have  been  a  hard  struggle, 
anyway,  but  a  scandal  like  this  is  a  sword  in  the 
hands  of  his  enemies.  He  hasn't  a  chance." 

Ben's  consternation  showed  in  his  face. 

"What  will  he  do?"  he  enquired. 

"You  talk  to  Mary,"  said  Lady  Kitty  earnestly. 
"You  have  more  influence  with  her  than  any  of 
us.  It  will  take  her  out  of  herself  more  than  any- 
thing else  can — interesting  her  in  another  per- 
son's trouble.  And  it  is  a  big  enough  trouble  to 
interest  anybody !  A  man 's  whole  career  spoiled, 
perhaps  even  his  whole  life.  Make  her  see  that 
she  is  partly — yes — responsible. ' ' 

"But  what  could  she  do?"  inquired  the  Duke. 

"Do?  Why,  make  him  happy,  somehow  or 
other.  Give  him  something  to  hope  for,  at  least. 
What  would  a  man  do  for  a  woman  whose  life 
he  had  compromised?  Well,  she  ought  to  do  the 
same  for  him ! ' ' 

"It  would  ruin  them  both,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"Well,  let  it!  They'd  get  some  happiness 
first!" 

"Kitty,  you  are  not  to  be  trusted  out  of  ear- 
shot! If  I  were  not  by,  to  correct  and  explain 
you,  any  one  would  think  you  really  held  the  views 


136       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

you  advocate.  Your  warm-heartedness  carries 
you  away.  Mary  owes  Philip  Carmichael 
nothing.  His  infatuation  for  her  has  placed  her 
in  a  terrible  position,  but  she  is  not  in  the  least 
responsible  for  the  fact  that  he,  too,  is  placed 
there." 

Lady  Kitty  preserved  a  rebellious  silence,  and 
Ben,  feeling  sorry  for  her,  said  kindly:  "I'll  do 
my  best  for  them  both,  if  either  of  them  gives  me 
an  opening.  Of  course,  I  can't  force  confi- 
dence. But  I  wouldn  't  worry  over  them  any  more, 
if  I  were  you,  Lady  Kitty.  Leave  things  to  time 
to  adjust.  You  know  sometimes  the  man  is  better 
without  the  woman,  and  the  woman  without  the 
man,  even  when  they  care  a  great  lot  for  each 
other." 

"And  happiness  isn't  the  only  thing  in  the 
world,"  added  the  Duke. 

"No,  but  it  is  the  best  thing!"  flashed  Lady 
Kitty. 

The  two  men,  each  of  whom,  in  his  different 
way,  knew  something  of  the  renunciations  of  life, 
smiled  a  little  over  her  head,  as  she  sat  between 
them.  She  looked  up  swiftly  and  caught  the  end 
of  it. 

"At  least,"  she  added,  rising  to  the  full  height 
of  her  small  figure,  with  hurt  pride  in  every  line 
of  it,  "it's  the  best  thing  for  ordinary  human  be- 
ings. Of  course,  I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  su- 
perior people — or  saints."  And  she  withdrew 
with  much  dignity. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       137 

The  Duchess  looked  after  her  indulgently  and 
then  twinkled,  as  she  caught  Ben's  low  chuckle  of 
amusement. 

"Isn't  she  a  darling?"  she  said.  "I  have  to 
rebuke  her,  but  I  secretly  enjoy  her  little 
tempers ! ' ' 

The  twelfth  of  August  was  approaching,  and  the 
breaking  up  of  Parliament.  Mary  had  accepted 
the  invitation  of  the  Duke  and  Duchess  to  go 
with  them  to  one  of  their  country  places  and  live 
very  quietly  and  healthfully  among  the  Highland 
hills  for  a  month  or  two,  until  her  plans  should 
shape  themselves,  and  she  should  decide  what  was 
to  be  done  with  the  rest  of  her  life.  Ben  was  to 
be  of  the  party,  and  Lady  Kitty,  and  that  was  all. 
These  old  friends,  the  nearest  to  a  family  circle 
that  she  now  had,  came  close  to  her  in  her  loneli- 
ness ;  but  even  from  these  she  subtly  withdrew  her- 
self, glad  indeed  of  their  society,  but  reserved  in 
it;  grateful  for  all  their  interest  and  sympathy, 
but  calling  upon  it  as  little  as  possible.  She  did 
not  understand  herself  and  her  own  needs  and  de- 
sires. Since  the  shock  of  her  husband's  death, 
she  had  been  another  woman.  Some  reproach 
was  gnawing  at  the  heart  of  her,  which  Lady 
Kitty  divined,  without  fully  comprehending. 
Mary  did,  indeed,  feel  herself  unforgiven — not  of 
God — but  of  herself. 

Of  Philip  Carmichael  she  thought  as  little  as 
possible.  She  was  too  wrapped  in  her  own 
anguish  to  realize  his.  They  had  not  met  since 


138      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

the  fateful  day  when  their  secret  had  made  such  a 
public  scandal.  Secluded,  as  she  had  been  since, 
she  scarcely  realized  the  extent  of  it.  But  every 
day  increased  the  difficulty  of  his  position.  At 
first  there  had  been  the  whispers  and  looks;  he 
knew  himself  pointed  out,  talked  about,  even 
pitied.  But  when  groups  of  men  would  disperse 
as  he  joined  them ;  when  in  clubs  and  restaurants 
men,  who  had  been  cordial,  would  pass  with  a  bare 
civility;  when  hostesses  no  longer  found  him  in- 
dispensable; when  he  was  left  out  of  one  party 
after  another,  and  finally  invitations  ceased  alto- 
gether, he  began  to  realize  what  it  meant.  Worst 
of  all,  his  party  chiefs  were  silent  and  reserved, 
and  it  was  not  difficult  to  foresee  the  end  from 
their  attitude.  He  was  a  marked  man — one  of 
the  brilliant  failures,  a  social  outcast.  Sir  Ar- 
thur's incoherent  anger  had  all  the  force  of  an 
ante-mortem  accusation.  His  death,  following  so 
immediately,  gave  the  affair  a  sinister  aspect 
which  Carmichael's  best  friends  could  not  conceal 
from  him.  By  swift  degrees  he  was  made 
aware  that  his  career  as  a  statesman  was  over. 
The  years  he  had  given  to  preparing  for 
it,  the  success  he  had  attained  in  it,  counted 
for  nothing  against  the  overwhelming  public 
prejudice.  Bitterness  entered  into  the  soul  of 
him,  the  more  so  as  he  knew  himself  impotent 
against  the  injustice  of  it.  He  was  a  beaten  man. 
One  letter  he  had  had  from  Mary  in  answer  to 
one  from  him,  begging  to  see  her.  "Dear  Philip 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       139 

— later — much  later — I  daren't  trust  myself  yet, 
nor  my  love — nor  my  sorrow.  But  oh,  Philip,  to 
retrieve!  And  we  can't.  There  isn't  any  way. 
Through  the  wrong  that  we  did — it  was  a  sin  in 
truth,  if  not  in  fact — a  soul  has  gone  into  the  si- 
lence of  God — and  I  can't  forgive  myself.  I  can't 
find  any  peace.  Pity  me  if  you  can — and  leave 
me  for  a  little  while,  to  my  own  struggle.  When 
I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you,  I  will,  and  perhaps, 
by  and  by,  we  may  find  again  that  wonderful 
friendship  which  made  life  so  precious  to  us  both. ' ' 
To  this  he  had  returned  an  impetuous  reply. 

"My  Dearest — 

' '  You  speak  of  our  love  as  if  it  were  a  sin.  Love 
isn't  a  sin  in  itself — only  in  the  way  it  is  treated. 
And  you  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with 
in  that  way.  We  didn't  seek  it;  it  came  upon  us 
both  out  of  the  blue.  And  now,  surely  now,  there 
isn't  any  reason  why  we  should  not  acknowledge 
it  to  each  other — and  to  all  the  world.  Tell  me 
when  I  may  come  to  you  and  let  it  be  quickly; 
for  my  arms  are  longing  to  fold  you  in.  A  stag- 
gering thought  has  just  stopped  my  pen — that 
some  day — some  day  you  will  let  me  call  you 
aloud  what  I  do  now  to  myself — my  wife — my  Be- 
loved— my  wife." 

He  posted  this  with  that  inner  exhilaration  that 
is  a  sort  of  ecstasy  in  itself.  Whatever  might 
happen,  whether  his  fortunes  went  down  or  up, 
no  matter  what  fate  decreed,  he  felt  sure  of  her, 


140      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

of  her  tenderness,  of  her  love.  It  was  balm  to  his 
smarting  spirit,  stung  as  it  had  been  to  the  quick, 
by  the  withdrawal  of  public  favor.  There  was 
strength  in  it,  too,  strength  to  go  on  with,  because 
one  woman — and  that  a  great  woman,  as  every  one 
who  has  come  under  her  influence  acknowledged 
— still  believed  in  him,  still  loved  him,  in  the  face 
of  untoward  circumstance  and  of  reversed  public 
opinion.  He  knew,  if  he  could  live  it  down,  face 
it  out,  fight  it  through,  that  he  would  be  the 
stronger  for  the  temporary  setback ;  that  it  would 
engender  new  forces  within  him  to  win  his  world 
again.  Every  obstacle  surmounted  becomes  a 
stepping-stone  to  one's  end.  Philip  Carmichael 
felt  a  new  surge  of  purpose. 

But  the  days  passed,  and  no  reply  came.  He 
excused  it,  explained  it,  until  it  was  no  longer  pos- 
sible to  explain  it.  Then  it  bewildered  him,  and 
finally  one  morning,  in  desperation,  he  rang  the 
bell  of  her  house  in  Whitehall  Gardens.  He  must 
at  least  know  what  was  happening  to  her,  he  told 
himself.  He  was  informed  that  her  Ladyship  had 
gone  to  church. 

"But  it  isn't  Sunday,"  he  said,  puzzled. 

"No,  sir,  but  her  Ladyship  sometimes  goes  on 
other  days,"  Turnbull  had  replied  respectfully. 

He  turned  away  with  a  new  purpose.  He  knew 
the  church  at  which  she  worshipped.  He  would 
find  her  there.  All  the  better  that  it  was  not  Sun- 
day. They  could  talk. 

It  was   not   far.    As   he   entered   silently,   he 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       141 

seemed  at  first  to  be  the  only  occupant.  Think- 
ing that  possibly  she  had  not  yet  arrived,  he  sat 
down  in  one  of  the  back  pews  to  wait.  Far  at  the 
end  of  the  aisle,  the  red  lamp  burned  in  the  sanc- 
tuary, and  a  pervading  Presence  filled  the  place 
with  peace.  By  soft  degrees,  it  seemed  to  slip 
into  his  soul.  The  natural,  poetic  part  of  him 
yielded  itself  to  the  mystic  influence,  and  the  bit- 
terness of  the  past  days  went  out  of  him.  After 
all,  what  did  it  matter,  in  the  sum  total,  what  peo- 
ple thought?  A  man  had  his  work  to  do,  the  best 
he  could,  and  not  even  his  own  soul  could  judge  it. 
Only  God. 

Something  like  that  his  thoughts  went,  as  he 
laid  his  tired  head  on  the  back  of  the  seat  in 
front.  When  he  raised  it  again,  after  an  interval, 
a  new  note  of  color  caught  his  eye;  a  warmth  of 
soft  hair  against  the  stone-gray  of  a  pillar.  His 
heart  gave  a  glad  leap. 

Even  in  the  dim  light  and  at  a  distance,  he 
could  see  the  change  in  her.  All  the  gracious 
gaiety  was  gone  out  of  her,  all  the  youth!  Her 
slender  figure  in  its  widow's  black  gave  him  a 
shock.  She  might  almost  have  been  one  of  the 
Sisters  who  were  connected  with  the  parish.  The 
old  longing  for  her  filled  his  heart.  She  was  so 
exquisite,  kneeling  there  in  the  silence,  her  face 
laid  in  her  hands.  Presently  she  arose  and  left 
her  seat,  genuflected  before  the  Sacrament,  then 
came  up  the  aisle  toward  him.  She  did  not  see 
him  until  she  was  within  arm's  length  of  him. 


142       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"You!"  she  said  in  a  hushed  breath,  as  their 
hands  met.  He  did  not  reply,  but  there  had  al- 
ways been  that  understanding  between  them  which 
could  speak  without  words.  He  watched  light  and 
color  flow  into  her  face,  as  a  picture  is  illumined 
by  a  light  from  behind  or  above.  Her  beauty 
seemed  to  deepen  and  become  radiant  under  the 
touch  of  his  hand  on  her  pulse.  In  that  instant, 
while  her  eyes  hung  on  him — as  if  in  fear  that  he 
would  vanish  like  a  vision — he  knew  himself  her 
master ;  and  she  knew  it,  too. 

His  voice  shook  a  little  as  he  said  quietly: 
"Will  you  come  back  with  me  a  moment! 
Straight  up  to  the  sanctuary?"  And  without  re- 
leasing her  hand,  he  led  her  like  one  in  a  dream, 
till  they  knelt  at  the  chancel  rail. 

What  they  said  in  their  two  hearts  only  God 
knows.  What  mixture  of  human  worship  with  di- 
vine He  saw  in  the  two  souls  bare  before  Him,  who 
can  tell  ?  But  before  they  left  His  altar  the  sense 
of  benediction  was  upon  them  both. 

They  turned  into  one  of  the  back  pews  and 
talked  in  whispers,  although  there  was  no  one  in 
the  church  but  themselves. 

"I  came  for  the  answer  to  my  letter,"  he  said 
gently.  > 

"And  I  came  here  to  ask  it  of  God,  and  I  find— 
you!"  Her  whisper  died  in  a  long  breath.  "It 
seems  very  wonderful  and  beautiful — as  if  we  were 
forgiven  and  at  peace  at  last.  And  that's  the 
answer,  Philip.  That's  the  end." 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       143 

" Dearest,  that  is  no  end!"  His  hand  closed 
firmly  over  hers,  and  she  let  it  remain  there  al- 
most unconsciously,  while  the  soul  in  her  eyes/ 
yearned  toward  the  Sanctuary  they  had  just  left. 

"Sometimes,'*  she  said,  "I  seem  to  know  there 
is  another  relationship  for  men  and  women  who 
can  grasp  it  that  is  not  love  and  is  not  friend- 
ship— that  God  blesses  above  both.  But  just  as 
I  reach  out  for  it,  it  is  not  there!" 

"Because  it  is  not  real,  dearest.  There  is  only 
the  old,  real  thing,  as  it  always  was,  and  always 
will  be.  And  that  is  for  us.  There  is  no  wrong 
in  it  now." 

She  shook  her  head  and  released  her  hand.  "I 
can't  feel  it,  Philip.  It  has  been  shocked  out  of 
me  by  all  that  has  happened  in  the  last  month  or 
two.  I  am  afraid!  Just  here,  to-day,  I  have 
found  a  little  peace,  because  I  renounce  what 
seems — what  is — my  happiness.  Oh,  leave  me  my 
little  peace !  It 's  all  I  have  left ! ' ' 

She  had  risen,  and  he  heard  the  vibration  of  her 
voice  stop  short  of  a  sob. 

They  walked  up  the  aisle  to  the  door. 

"You  give  me  no  hope  at  all,  Mary?" 

"Only  the  hope  that  I  have  myself,"  she  an- 
swered, after  a  moment,  "that  somehow,  out 
of  all  this  suffering,  after  a  long  time,  perhaps, 
we  may  find  each  other  again,  on  some  other  plane 
that  can  be  blessed,  but  not  now — not  yet." 

It  seemed  to  Philip  Carmichael  that  he  could 
not  relinquish  her  so.  Words  and  desires  pressed 


144      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

strongly  to  his  lips  only  to  die  before  the  look  of 
her  eyes.  They  were  so  still,  so  apathetic,  as  she 
turned  from  him  and  lowered  her  veil.  It  shut 
her  subtly  away  from  him,  as  though  behind  its 
shadow  her  grief  descended  upon  her  again  and 
left  her  inviolate  to  any  softer  touch.  A  strong 
and  reverent  pity  possessed  him  and  held  him 
silent.  He  put  her  into  her  waiting  carriage  with- 
out a  word.  As  she  drove  away,  he  had  the  feel- 
ing that  she  tried  to  smile  bravely,  but  something 
was  wrong  with  his  own  eyes,  and  he  could  not 
be  sure. 


CHAPTER  X 

"The  half  o'  that,  I'll  take"  says  she,  "And  more,  too,  if  1 

can," 
THE  COURTING  OF  DINAH  SHAD. 

NOTHING  could  have  been  better  for 
Mary,  in  the  state  of  mind  which  dom- 
inated her  at  that  time,  than  the  environ- 
ment of  her  god-parents'  home  in  the  Highlands. 
They  lived  very  simply  up  there,  and  Lady  Kitty 
and  Ben  Baldwin  were  the  only  other  guests  for 
a  time.  To  restore  her  normal  happiness  was  the 
chief  concern  of  each  member  of  the  little  house- 
hold, and  in  their  several  ways,  they  succeeded 
wonderfully.  The  Duchess '  vigorous  and  friendly 
scoldings,  the  Duke's  gentle  solicitude,  Lady 
Kitty's  vivacity,  and  Ben's  native  drollery  were 
strong  helps,  while  the  splendid  Highland  air  and 
the  natural  joys  of  living  out-of-doors  did  their 
part  in  bringing  back  her  health,  and,  to  some  ex- 
tent, raising  her  spirits.  She  was  a  capital  horse- 
woman and  rode  every  day  over  the  moors  and 
down  to  the  sea,  generally  with  Ben  and  Lady 
Kitty,  but  sometimes  alone.  It  was  only  then, 
when  alone,  that  she  wondered  dully  how  to  shape 
the  rest  of  her  life.  It  seemed  so  lacking  in  mo- 
tive, in  purpose.  Her  place  in  the  world  had  been 
taken  from  her,  and  she  did  not  know  how  to  make 


1445       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

herself  another.  It  had  been  decided,  however, 
that  she  was  to  return  to  the  States  when  Ben's 
holiday  was  over,  to  visit  his  sister  Jessie,  her 
old  school  friend.  Ben  had  promised  to  escort 
her  as  far  as  New  York,  and  to  put  her  on  the 
train  for  San  Francisco. 

"Sis  will  do  the  rest,"  he  said;  "she  and  Cali- 
fornia are  the  best  treatment  in  the  world  for 
Mary. ' ' 

Lady  Kitty  and  Mary  carried  out  their  inten- 
tion of  spending  a  week  in  town  to  attend  to  vari- 
ous shopping  and  dressmaking  needs.  Ben  saw 
them  safely  bestowed  in  the  Duke's  London  house, 
with  their  maids  and  luggage,  and  then  went  off 
to  his  old  quarters  at  the  Savoy. 

The  three  met  daily  at  tea  or  dinner.  Most 
of  the  rooms  in  the  great  house  were  closed,  and 
most  of  the  servants  away,  so  these  meals  were 
generally  served  informally  in  the  little  morning- 
room  which  was  particularly  Lady  Kitty's,  or  in 
the  beautiful  old  library,  the  Duke's  favorite 
place  when  he  was  at  home.  Under  these  happy 
circumstances,  the  three  developed  an  intimacy  so 
close  and  sweet  that  the  memory  of  it  remained 
with  each  of  them  ever  afterward. 

The  week  had  nearly  passed,  and  they  had  seen 
nothing  of  Philip  Carmichael.  Ben  thought  he 
must  be  out  of  town,  as  he  had  not  been  able  to 
find  him.  Lady  Kitty  was  getting  quite  desperate 
about  it,  feeling,  as  she  told  Ben,  that  it  was  "now 
or  never"  with  them.  "And  if  she  ever  gets  off 


to  America  without  seeing  him,  it  will  be — 
never ! ' ' 

One  night,  when  the  two  women  talked  late, 
she  ventured  to  say  something  to  Mary  about  it. 
The  latter  was  standing  in  front  of  a  long  glass, 
braiding  her  light  brown  hair.  Lady  Kitty 
paused  in  her  own  vigorous  brushing,  to  say 
softly:  "How  Philip  Carmichael  always  loved 
the  color  of  it!" 

Receiving  no  answer,  after  the  little  silence  that 
followed,  she  continued  softly: 

"Don't  you  ever  think  of  him,  Mary?" 

' '  Yes.    But  I  can 't  talk  of  it,  Kitty. ' ' 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  little  widow.  "It 
would  do  you  good,  Mary.  It  would  do  you  more 
good  to  see  him !  It  would  do  you  most  good  of 
all  to  marry  him ! ' ' 

Mary  looked  so  startled  that  the  other  almost 
laughed.  She  contained  herself,  however,  and 
said  very  gently: 

"Forgive  me  if  I  trespass  where  I  shouldn't, 
because  my  only  motive  is  to  make  you  happy, 
you  poor  dear.  And  why  shouldn't  you  be? 
Talk  to  me,  Mary,  tell  me  about  it.  It  will  help 
you,  believe  me. ' ' 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell." 

* '  Tell  me  you  love  him,  in  spite  of  anything  you 
can  do  to  prevent  it.  You  do  love  him,  Mary, 
don't  you?" 

' '  How  do  you  know  that  ? ' ' 

"Dear  idiot!    I  can  read  the  signs!     Mary, 


148      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

don't  you  see,  that  if  you  are  a  lover,  you  really 
ought  to  marry  him?" 

"No,  I  don't  see  that,'*  said  Mary  slowly. 

Her  friend  took  the  moment  resolutely  into  her 
hands.  "Your  husband  is  dead,"  she  said. 
"You  would  be  but  following  out  his  wish  if  you 
married  the  man  you  love.  And  he  needs  you. 
You  have  hurt  his  life.  You  must  make  it  up  to 
him." 

"I— hurt  his  life?" 

"Yes,  you.  He  has  lost  his  ambition,  his 
hope.  He  would  find  them  again  with  you." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"Because  he  loves  you." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Dear  idiot — dear  fellow-idiot!"  said  Lady 
Kitty,  putting  on  her  whimsical  look  of  patience, 
"I  don't  know  how  I  know;  but  I  seem  always  to 
understand  every  degree  of  the  disease — even  in 
other  people!" 

Mary's  low  laugh  rewarded  her  sally,  but  it 
stopped  almost  at  once. 

"I  can't  talk  about  it,  dear,"  she  said  gravely, 
"but — I'll  think.  No,  I  don't  mind  your  having 
broached  the  subject.  Only,  it  isn't  time  yet  to 
go  on  with  it." 

And  with  that,  the  warm-hearted  little  widow 
had  to  be  content. 

Destiny,  however,  was  on  her  side.  What  all 
her  friendly  plotting  could  not  bring  about,  it  ac- 
complished for  her  quite  easily.  On  the  very  last 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       149 

day  of  their  stay  in  town,  as  the  two  widows  were 
driving  home  after  a  fitting,  Lady  Kitty  gave  a 
sudden  command  to  the  coachman,  and  the  car- 
riage came  to  a  standstill.  She  stretched  out  her 
hand  over  the  side. 

4 'How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Carmichael?"  she  said 
gaily,  as  he  came  up. 

It  all  happened  so  suddenly  that  none  of  them 
realized  quite  what  they  were  doing.  Mary 
flushed  and  paled  again,  nervously,  as  they  shook 
hands.  Lady  Kitty,  in  high  spirits,  did  most  of 
the  talking.  She  insisted  that  Carmichael  get  in 
and  drive  back  with  them  to  tea. 

1  'Ben  is  coming,"  she  said  happily,  "and  he  has 
been  wanting  to  see  you  for  ever  so  long,  hasn't 
he,  Mary?" 

Carmichael 's  eyes  questioned  her.  "Yes,"  she 
answered,  trying  to  avoid  them.  "Yes — do 
come." 

"It  will  be  your  last  chance  to  see  either  of 
them,"  Lady  Kitty  prattled  on,  as  he  obeyed,  and 
the  carriage  started  again.  "For  we  are  off  to 
the  Highlands  again  to-morrow,  and  very  soon 
they  are  going  to  America." 

She  laughed  at  his  puzzled  expression.  "No, 
they  are  not  eloping,"  she  continued.  "At  least 
they  haven't  told  me  so — though  personally  I 
think  it  would  do  Mary  good — " 

"Kitty!"  from  Mary  in  protest. 

"Still,  perhaps  it  wouldn't  be  quite  'clubby' 
under  the  circumstances!"  her  friend  continued, 


150       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

twinkling  radiantly.  She  was  talking  just  for  the 
sake  of  talking,  but  her  gaiety  was  spontaneous. 
Philip  Cannichael  was  recovering  under  its  in- 
fluence. 

"Same  delightful  Madame  Frivolity,"  he  said, 
with  a  smile. 

' '  Just  the  same.  And  awfully  glad  to  see  you, 
Mr.  Carmichael. ' '  The  cordiality  of  her  tone 
rang  true. 

"Nice  of  you  to  say  it,"  he  returned  gratefully. 
The  quick  perceptions  of  both  women  read  into 
the  simple  words  the  history  of  many  a  secret  hurt. 
They  talked  more  generally,  telling  him  of  Mary's 
plan  to  visit  Ben's  sister,  and  speaking  mostly  of 
America,  until  the  house  was  reached. 

Then  Lady  Kitty  left  them  alone  in  the  dim, 
cool  library  and  went  away  to  give  some  instruc- 
tions about  tea.  They  had  scarcely  spoken  di- 
rectly to  each  other,  and  when  they  were  alone, 
there  still  seemed  nothing  to  say.  She  was  trou- 
bled, and  he  stirred  with  the  old  longing  for  her, 
and  over  these  feelings,  their  eyes  met.  Then 
suddenly  they  found  themselves  in  each  other's 
arms.  Every  explanation  vanished,  every  scruple 
broke  down  before  the  reality  in  them  both — the 
strong  and  terrible  reality  that  makes  or  breaks 
the  lives  of  men  and  women  as  nothing  else  can. 
When  they  drew  away  and  looked  each  other  in 
the  eyes  after  a  long  minute,  there  seemed  nothing 
between  them  and  the  desire  of  their  hearts. 

"It  is  not ' wrong'  now,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      151 

"Philip,  it  makes  me  afraid — like  a  miracle. 
It  is  so  sudden!  I  can't  believe  that  it  may  be 
really  right,  and  blessed  after  all. ' ' 

"I  love  to  hear  you  say  'blessed'  like  that." 

"But  just  think!  Only  a  month  or  so  ago  we 
were  fighting  this  thing  with  all  our  strength,  try- 
ing to  deny  its  existence,  and  now — " 

"Now,"  he  said,  taking  her  hands  between  his 
palms,  "now,  when  will  you  marry  me,  Mary?" 

She  looked  swiftly  up  and  away  again.  "Oh, 
Philip,  we  can't  speak  of  that  yet!" 

He  was  silent,  respecting  her  scruple,  even  while 
he  rebelled  at  it.  She  seemed  to  follow  his 
thought,  for  after  a  moment,  withdrawing  her 
hands  in  one  of  those  big,  honest  gestures  that 
seemed  to  express  her  whole  personality,  she  con- 
tinued : 

"Yet,  after  all,  why  not?  Why  should  we  not 
speak  of  it?  The  real  thing  is  the  right  thing. 
We  love  each  other.  Only  let  it  be  not  hurried; 
we  owe  that — to  others.  Shall  I  say  in  a  year?" 

' '  A  year ! ' '    He  was  aghast. 

She  laughed.  "You  child!  Does  it  seem  so 
long?  Why,  I've  only  known  you  a  little  over  a 
year !  And  just  think  of  all  the  other  years  that 
are  left." 

"A  year!"  he  repeated,  as  if  he  had  heard  only 
that.  "Why,  Mary,  I  couldn't  wait  a  year!  I 
couldn't  stand  it — the  strain  of  the  whole  situa- 
tion. You  don't  know  what  it's  like!  You  don't 
know  how  they  talk — about  you,  too." 


152       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

11  About  me  I"  she  said  slowly  and  proudly. 

"  About  us.  Every  one  expects  us  to  marry, 
and  soon.  But  of  course,  that's  neither  here  nor 
there,  what  they  expect.  Still,  what  people  think 
has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  a  man's  life,  I've  found. 
Of  course  I  shan't  stand  for  the  next  election.  I 
shall  want  to  go  away;  and,  oh,  I  shall  want  to 
take  you  with  me ! " 

1 1  Philip,  do  you  mean  it  ?  That  you  won 't  stand 
on  account  of — oh,  it's  impossible!" 

"Why,  dear,"  he  said  quietly,  "it's  over — the 
whole  thing.  I  know  it  as  well  as  if  I  had  been 
dismissed  by  an  employer.  Think  of  the  faces  of 
my  constituents,  if  I  tried  to  run  again!  No,  I'm 
only  thankful  that  I  am  through  at  the  close  of  this 
session.  I  am,  or  shall  be  soon,  'out  of  a  job.' 
There,  don't  worry  about  it !  I'll  find  another." 

"But  it  was  your  whole  interest,  your  life,  a 
year  ago!" 

"Yes,  a  year  ago,  but  now— 

Her  eyes  filled.    "What  will  you  do?" 

Carmichael  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair  with 
a  fine,  free  gesture,  as  if  he  were  pushing  off  a 
load  to  fall  behind  him.  Then  he  started  to  walk 
up  and  down,  as  his  habit  was  when  interested  or 
excited,  hands  crammed  in  pockets. 

"I'll  tell  you.  I've  been  thinking  it  over  a  bit 
of  late,  and  I'm  ready  for  the  question!"  He 
twinkled  merrily,  and  his  speech  relapsed  into  its 
natural  Irish  intonation,  which  it  was  apt  to  do 
on  occasions.  "It  was  gloomy  thinkin',  when  I 


wasn't  sure  of  you,  darlin' — but  now,  now  that 
I  am — oh,  my  dear — my  sweet — could  you  be  con- 
tent to  come  with  me,  even  to  another  country, 
and  start  again  at  something  else!  Where  people 
don't  know  us,  where  we'd  be  poor  like  the  rest, 
and  work  like  the  rest,  and,  like  the  rest,  build  our 
house  and  live  in  it — the  remainder  of  our  lives! 
Could  you,  Mary,  could  you  ? ' ' 

"You  don't  mean  Canada?" 

"No,  California.  I've  a  tiny  bit  of  property 
out  there  an  old  uncle  of  mine  left  me.  It's 
nothing.  He  used  to  raise  oranges  and  barely 
made  a  living.  It  would  be  just  that  for  us,  too. 
Hard  work  for  a  living,  not  for  the  joy  of  the 
work.  Oh,  I  shouldn't  ask  it  of  you.  It's  dead 
selfish  I  am.  No,  I'd  better  go  first,  and  make  my 
fortune — and  then  come  back  for  you,  my  Mary." 
He  twinkled  again,  irresistibly.  "Only,  by  the 
time  I'd  made  it,  we  might  be  old  and  gray. 
Would  you  wait  for  me,  Mary?" 

"No,  sir,"  she  retorted  with  spirit.  "The 
making  belongs  to  me  as  much  as  the  fortune." 

"Faith,  more!  There  won't  be  any  fortune, 
but  there'll  be  plenty  of  makin'  it!" 

She  laughed  outright  then  sobered  quickly. 
"Phil,  dear,  I  want  to  share  from  the  start.  I'm 
poor,  too.  I  can't  take  anything  from  Ronald 
Stanhope.  You  don't  mind?" 

"I  wouldn't  have  it!" 

"And  I'm  not  very  useful,  but  I'll  learn.  I 
won't  be  a  burden." 


154       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"A  what?" 

"A  bur—" 

" Don't  say  it!"  He  took  her  in  his  arms  with 
sudden  passion.  "Do  you  really  mean  it,  my 
dearest:  that  you'll  come  with  me,  that  you're 
not  afraid  to  try  a  new  life — new  and  hard — with 
met" 

"I'll  go  anywhere  with  you!"  she  said,  with 
shining  eyes. 

"Wide  world  over!" 

"Wide  world  over!" 

"Ah,  you're  a  rare  one!  You  make  me  feel 
like  crying.  .  .  .  Mary!"  He  put  her  suddenly 
away  from  him,  with  a  new  thought. 

"What  is  it!" 

"You're  not  marrying  me  to  save  me?"  He 
was  in  sober  earnest. 

She  looked  bewildered,  then  broke  into  laugh- 
ter. "Dear  idiot,  of  course  not.  What  should  I 
save  you  from?" 

"Because,  you  know,  I've  my  own  pride.  And 
I  wouldn  't  want  to  be  married  out  of  pity  or  corn- 
pa  ssion,  or  because  you  might  think  that  you— 

"That  I  owed  it  to  you,"  she  finished  for  him. 
"No,  it  isn't  for  any  reason  of  that  sort  that  I 
shall  marry  you.  It's  because  you  offer  me  the 
two  greatest  things  in  life — love  and  work — 
alongside  of  each  other,  and  both  for  you.  There 
will  be  such  busy  days — you  don't  know  Cali- 
fornia, do  you  ?  I  do — and  such  wonderful  nights, 
cool  and  deep  and  soft,  with  the  smell  of  flowers 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       155 

all  the  time,  and  plains  and  mountains  and  stars ! 
Oh,  Philip !  you  are  leading  me  into  an  enchanted 
land.  It  isn  't  into  exile  we  are  going ;  it  is  home ! ' ' 

"My  dear  one!" 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment,  then  he  started 
to  his  feet,  with  one  of  his  sudden  movements. 

"Are  you  going?"  she  said,  disappointed. 

"Yes,  to  get  the  tickets — to  book  passage." 

"But  you  will  not  need  them  until  Christmas, 
at  least!  'Faith,'  as  you  say,  it  is  clear  I  am 
marrying  a  madman!" 

"And  it's  clear  I  am  marrying  an  angel!" 

"Oh,  don't!" 

"Well,  then,  a  great  lady — with  a  great,  sweet 
heart — my  dear — my  dear." 

She  lay  against  his  breast,  her  slenderness 
wrapped  around  by  his  strong  arms  as  by  a  man- 
tle, whose  warm  fold  would  ever  stand  between 
her  and  that  shiver  of  the  heart  which  is  loneli- 
ness. 

"But  what,"  said  Lady  Kitty  the  next  day,  as 
they  were  on  their  way  to  the  Highlands,  "what 
will  Aunt  Theodora  say?" 

Her  consternation  was  comical.  "She'll  say  I 
put  you  up  to  it!" 

"So  you  did,"  said  Mary  mischievously. 
' '  And  I  expect  you  to  bear  the  brunt  and  break  the 
news  for  me!"  Then  she  added  more  seriously: 
"I  do  really  think  you  had  better  do  it,  Kitty. 
Choose  your  own  moment  and  I  will  help  you  out. " 

It  happened  a  day  or  two  after  their  return  to 


156      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

the  Highlands  that  the  Duke  and  Duchess  were 
made  acquainted  with  her  plans.  Mary,  coming 
back  to  the  house  after  a  ride  one  morning, 
glanced  into  the  morning-room  on  her  way  up- 
stairs. She  was  still  in  riding  clothes,  and  had 
brought  the  glow  and  stir  of  triumphant  health  in 
with  her.  Color  and  life  were  in  her  face,  and  her 
hair,  loosened  a  little  from  its  neat  braiding,  blew 
in  soft  little  waves  about  her  forehead.  She  wore 
a  three-cornered  hat  of  soft  felt,  which  crushed 
down  on  her  hair,  utterly  unlike  the  usual  stiff 
English  derby.  She  was  a  picture  as  she  stood 
in  the  doorway.  The  Duke  put  down  his  paper  to 
smile  at  her,  then  got  up  and  went  over  to  the  win- 
dow, turning  his  back  on  the  room,  a  way  he  had 
when  something  unpleasant  was  being  threshed 
out  in  family  council. 

"Heavens!"  exclaimed  Mary  brightly.  "How 
solemn  you  look — like  an  owl  in  an  ivy-bush, 
Duchess!  Whatever  is  the  matter? " 

"And  you,"  retorted  the  Duchess,  "look  like  a 
western  cow-girl  in  that  hat.  Do  take  it  off, 
Mary,  and  try  to  get  used  to  a  civilized  English 
derby.  * ' 

"I  never  heard  of  a  *  cow-girl',"  said  Mary, 
laughing,  *  *  but  I  '11  take  it  off.  I  was  just  going  to 
change,  anyway." 

"I've  been  telling  them,"  said  Lady  Kitty, 
*  *  that  I  think  the  hat  suits  you  beautifully — and  it 
will  probably  suit  you  still  better  in  California." 

The  bolt  was  shot. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       157 

Mary  felt  the  quick  look  that  both  her  old 
friends  turned  upon  her.  The  Duke's  was  trou- 
bled, the  Duchess'  somewhat  indignant. 

"My  dear  Mary,"  she  said,  "Kitty  has  been 
telling  us  the  most  extraordinary  things.  I  re- 
fuse to  take  them  seriously.  I  said  I  would  wait 
until  you  corroborated  them. ' ' 

After  a  second  Mary  said,  in  that  tone  that 
Lady  Kitty  described  as  "her  wonderful  voice": 

"They  are  blessedly  true." 

"  ' Blessedly  true!'  Huh!"  The  Duchess 
scoffed.  "Mary,  you  must  be  out  of  your  senses. 
There,  my  dear,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you;  for- 
give an  old  woman's  hasty  speech!"  she  added,  as 
she  saw  the  deeper  color  of  resentment  encroach- 
ing on  Mary's  face.  "But  you  surely  can't  mean 
such  things!  I  simply  won't  believe  it.  I — I 
won't  allow  it!"  she  finished  up. 

"Aunt!"  remonstrated  Lady  Kitty. 

"I'm  sorry  you  should  take  it  like  this,"  said 
Mary  gently,  "because,  you  see,  I'm  so  happy  I 
should  like  you  all  to  share  it,  to  be  happy  with 
me — for  me.  But  if  you  can't — "  She  paused 
and  looked  wistfully  at  the  Duke.  His  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back  were  twisting  nervously, 
but  he  gave  no  other  answer  to  the  mute  appeal. 

"If  you  can't,"  she  continued,  "you  can't,  of 
course.  But — I'm  sorry." 

"It  will  make  no  difference  to  you — our  objec- 
tions, I  suppose?"  asked  the  Duchess,  knitting 
vigorously. 


158      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Oh,  yes — a  great  difference — but — " 

"But  it  won't  change  your  determination!" 

"No." 

"Where's  Ben  Baldwin?"  asked  Lady  Kitty 
plaintively. 

"I'm  glad  he  isn't  here  at  this  moment," 
snapped  the  Duchess.  "We  may  as  well  keep  this 
thing  to  ourselves  until — until  Mary  changes  her 
mind. ' ' 

"I  shall  never  change  it." 

The  Duchess  grew  desperate.  She  had  a 
violent  temper  when  it  was  aroused,  and  the 
sense  of  opposition  and  a  foreknowledge  of  de- 
feat were  rousing  it  now,  to  an  unusual  degree. 

"Mary  Stanhope!"  she  cried,  and  the  knitting 
dropped  into  her  lap.  "Do  you  mean  to  stand 
there  and  tell  me  that  you  mean  to  leave  home, 
friends,  country,  to  go  with  a  man  whom  you 
scarcely  know — what's  a  year's  acquaintance! — 
whom  none  of  us  likes  or  trusts ;  who  is  socially  an 
outcast  by  this  time ;  who  has  nearly  ruined  your 
life  as  it  is  and  will  ruin  it  yet;  to  go  with  such 
a  man  to  a  strange  country  and  to  a  hard,  poor 
life — you,  used  to  everything  that's  worth  living 
for  ?  I  can 't  believe  it ;  you  won 't,  when  you  come 
to  think  it  over,  let  yourself  do  such  a  thing." 
She  was  softening  as  she  ended,  but  Mary's  face 
had  hardened,  and  her  head  was  very  high.  The 
things  said  of  her  lover  had  cut  deep.  After  a 
while  she  said  slowly : 

"I'm  sorry  you  don't  like — Mr.  Carmichael — 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       159 

but  I  love  him.  If  he  is  'socially  an  outcast*  as 
you  say,  it  is  partly  my  fault.  He  hasn't  ruined 
my  life,  he's  completed  it;  and  there's  nothing 
else  worth  living  for — but  him." 

Her  words  but  added  fuel  to  the  anger  and  con- 
sternation of  the  old  Duchess.  She  arose  and 
left  her  seat. 

"It's  exile,  disgrace,  poverty,  work,  estrange- 
ment of  your  friends — and  God  only  knows  what 
ruin  at  the  end!" 

"I'll  share  it  all,"  said  Mary  steadfastly. 

The  Duchess  gave  a  gesture  of  despair.  "Then 
there's  nothing  else  to  say.  I  wash  my  hands  of 
you ! ' '  And  she  left  the  room. 

Lady  Kitty  bestowed  a  warm  hug  on  Mary, 
standing  silent  in  the  doorway,  turning  the  three- 
cornered  hat  round  and  round  in  her  hand.  * '  My 
dear,  you  are  wonderful,"  she  said,  "and  I  love 
you  for  it!"  Then  she,  too,  passed  out,  leaving 
her  friend  alone  with  the  Duke.  He  turned  at 
once,  his  face  full  of  grave  solicitude. 

"Well,  Godfather?" 

"Well,  my  child." 

"Are  you  going  to  leave  me,  too?" 

"You  know  that  could  never  be.  But,  my  child, 
though  they  sound  hard,  perhaps,  to  you  now,  the 
Duchess  has  said  a  great  many  true  things." 

Mary's  face,  which  had  softened  naturally 
under  the  old  man's  gentleness,  grew  stern  again. 

"What  things?" 

"Of  your  friend,  Philip  Carmichael.    Mary,  I 


160       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

could  wish  with  all  my  heart  that  your  affection 
had  been  given  to  almost  any  other  man  we 
know. ' ' 

1 '  Godfather!" 

"Yes,  almost  any  other.  Not  that  I  don't  like 
him  immensely,  personally,  and  enjoy  him — 
every  one  does ;  but,  well,  my  objection  is  one  that 
a  woman  wouldn't  understand.  But  a  man 
would." 

Mary  replied,  standing  very  tall  and  straight: 

"Well,  it  doesn't  matter,  anyway — any  one's 
'objection' — for  it  couldn't  weigh  with  me  one  jot 
against  the  man  I  love  and  against  my  given  word. 
Don't  you  see?  Nothing  matters,  nothing  can 
matter,  but  just  his  need  of  me  and  mine  of  him." 

"The  splendid  selfishness  of  lovers,"  said  the 
Duke  patiently,  with,  however,  a  sigh  not  quite 
of  resignation.  "Other  people  need  you,  too, 
Mary." 

"Not  as  he  does.     And  I  need  him." 

"But  supposing  you  knew,  supposing  you  could 
be  made  to  see, — that  it  would  be  really  unwise 
to  marry  him ;  that  it  would  produce  only  unhappi- 
ness  for  you,  because  he  is  by  nature  and  tempera- 
ment incapable  of  making  another  happy  for  long; 
supposing  you  knew  his  history  and  inheritance, 
and  it  should  show  you,  as  it  would,  that  it  is  a  long 
chance  you  are  taking,  Mary, — what  then?" 

"Why,  I'd  take  it  just  the  same,"  she  said, 
"because  I  love  him,  Godfather." 


He  turned  away  helplessly.  ''How  blind 
women  are!"  he  said.  "How  blind  love  is!" 

Some  of  her  native  buoyancy  danced  in  her  eyes 
for  a  moment.  She  came  close  and  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm  caressingly. 

"Isn't  it  lucky?"  she  said. 

He  patted  her  hand  kindly.  "You  know,  my 
dear,  I  understand  what  has  happened  to  you,  I 
understand  the  feeling — don't  think  I  don't, 
though  it  takes  me  back  a  good  many  years — but 
I  understand,  too,  what  you  don't  as  yet — " 

"What's  that,  dear  Godfather?"  she  asked,  as 
he  hesitated. 

"Why — that  it  passes.  It  passes.  It  passes 
forever. ' ' 

She  stared  at  him,  uncomprehendingly,  unbe- 
lievingly. 

"I  know  you  can't  realize  it  now,"  he  went  on 
patiently.  "You  couldn't  be  expected  to,  at  your 
age.  But  we  always  long  to  save  others  from  the 
mistake  we've  made  ourselves." 

She  returned  to  his  former  words  in  her  answer. 

"What  passes?" 

"Love — passion — emotion — whatever  name  you 
call  it — the  thing  that  you  think  binds  you  to  one 
of  the  other  sex;  it  passes — it  all  passes  away." 

Mary  looked  at  him  pityingly,  and  he  almost 
laughed  as  he  met  the  look. 

"It's  grim — that,"  he  said,  "that  you  should 
pity  me  for  what  I  can't  feel  any  more,  while  I 


162      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

am  standing  here  wasting  sympathy  on  you  for 
what  I  know  you've  got  to  go  through." 

"I  do  pity  any  one  who  can  think  love  passes 
away,"  she  said  gravely. 

* '  I  didn  't  say  quite  that. ' ' 

11  Didn't  you  ?" 

"No.  What  I  meant  to  say  was,  that  human 
love  passes — that  which  makes  you  single  one  man 
out  from  his  fellows." 

"I  can't  believe  that,  either." 

The  Duke  passed  his  hand  slowly  over  her  shin- 
ing light  brown  hair. 

"Ah,  well,"  he  said,  "at  your  age  I  didn't, 
either.  We  each  have  to  live  and  learn.  I  would 
have  spared  you  unhappiness  if  I  could,  but  per- 
haps, after  all,  I  was  wrong  to  try.  It  is  some- 
times one's  best  friend — sorrow — and  always 
one 's  greatest  teacher. ' ' 

Mary  smiled  rather  ruefully.  "I  seem  to  be 
starting  out  on  my  new  life  with  a  unique  set  of 
congratulations,"  she  said. 

"My  dear  little  child,"  he  said  very  tenderly, 
"what  can  I  say  to  you!  You  are  going  to  marry 
a  man  whose  stability  and  character  I  doubt.  I 
must  say  it  this  once.  I'm  a  better  judge  of  men 
than  you — are. ' ' 

"  I  don't  judge  him;  I  love  him." 

"Just  so.  But  not  loving  him,  and  loving  you 
very  much,  I  must  judge  him.  He  isn't  quite  a 
man's  man.  If  he  were,  he  wouldn't  take  you  like 
this — to  such  hardships,  such  work.  But  there! 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       163 

Let  that  pass.  They  are  not  what  I  dread  for 
you.  You've  spirit  enough  to  surmount  such 
things.  What  I  dread  for  you — " 

"Yes,"  she  said  puzzled,  "what  on  earth  is  this 
dark  thing  you  seem  to  dread  so  much  ?  Trot  out 
the  hobgoblin,  show  me  your  spectre,  and  I'll  show 
you  it's  only  an  imaginary  one,  born  of  your  too- 
great  concern  for  me.  Now,  what  is  it  ?  " 

The  Duke  answered  after  a  moment's  silence: 
"Your  disappointment  in  the  man  himself,  Mary. 
You'll  have  to  acknowledge  it,  one  day.  Will  you 
be  able  to  stand  it?  You  are  such  an  idealist! 
You  can't  realize  it  now,  but  how  will  it  be  with 
you  when  you  do  1 " 

After  a  moment's  silence,  she  said  with  a  tone 
of  finality:  "Godfather  dear,  Philip  is  my  por- 
tion for  good  or  for  evil ;  if  for  good,  well ;  if  for 
evil,  well,  too.  But  whichever  it  is,  he  is  my  por- 
tion of  life — the  blood  of  nay  heart,  the  breath  of 
my  soul,  my  gift  of  God.  I  love  him." 

"Lord — so  you  do!"  said  the  Duke  despair- 
ingly. 

She  smiled  brightly.  "So,  you  see,  all  that  be- 
ing so,  there's  no  use  warning  me,  or  arguing 
with  me,  is  there  ?  You  must  just  put  up  with  me, 
with  us,  and  make  the  best  of  us,  won't  you?" 

Her  head  had  found  his  shoulder,  and  her  arm 
crept  up  to  his  neck. 

"You'd  charm  the  birds  off  the  trees,"  he  said 
half  angrily. 

"Godfather—" 


164      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Yes—" 

* '  If  great  things  like  these — great,  deep,  beauti- 
ful feelings — do  pass— 

"Yes,  well?" 

"If  they  do — as  you  think — why,  what  on  earth 
lasts?" 

The  Duke  gave  her  a  strange  look.  "That's 
for  you — and  him — to  find  out,"  he  said  mystic- 
ally. 

Afterward,  speaking  to  the  Duchess,  he  said: 
"She's  a  wonderful  woman,  Mary  is.  I  meant 
thoroughly  to  frighten,  thoroughly  to  discourage 
her,  but  she  was  so — well,  wonderful — there's  no 
other  word  for  it — that  I — I  didn't  succeed." 

"Fiddlesticks!  Being  *  wonderful'  as  you  call 
it,  won't  pay  bills,"  said  the  Duchess.  "Not 
Mary's  bills,  anyway.  No,  there'll  be  plenty  of 
billing  if  not  cooing!  And  what  do  you  mean, 
anyway,  by  your  'wonderful'!  It  seems  to  me  the 
most  ordinary  sort  of  absurd  infatuation." 

The  Duke  laughed.  "Everybody  else's  in- 
fatuation always  seems  like  that.  But  what  is 
wonderful  about  Mary  is  her  almost — if  it  were 
any  one  else  but  her,  I  should  say  almost  un- 
modest  pride  in  it.  It's  superb  in  its  way;  quite 
fearless  of  opinion  or  consequences  or  anything 
but  the  supreme  fact  of  the  moment.  She  loves 
him  and  glories  in  it!" 

The  Duchess  groaned.  "It's  hopeless!  And 
so  are  you,  Edward.  Talk  about  idealism! 
You're  as  bad  as  she.  I  believe  you'd  positively 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       165 

encourage  her  mad  feeling.  You'd  call  it 
*  wonderful'  or  'big'  or  some  other  asinine 
thing—" 

"My  dear  Theodora,"  the  Duke  remonstrated 
meekly,  his  eyes  twinkling,  "such  language!" 

"  'Tisn't  half  bad  enough,  and  don't  contradict 
me!" 

"I  didn't,  did  I?" 

"Well,  don't.  As  for  Mary,  she's  obsessed — 
not  wonderful.  I'm  out  of  patience  with  her.  I 
thought  she  had  more  sense.  A  scamp,  like  Car- 
michael !  If  he  were  even  a  man — " 

"We  know  nothing  against  him,  Theodora." 

"I  wish  we  did!"  said  the  Duchess,  with  an- 
other groan. 

"It  wouldn't  make  any  difference — to  Mary." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  any  sane  woman — 
oh,  but  she  isn't  sane! — do  you  mean  to  say  that 
any  woman  can't  be  made  to  see  the  rocks  she's 
heading  for  1 ' ' 

1 1  Not  till  she  gets  to  them, ' '  answered  the  Duke, 
"and  feels  them." 

"Well,  I  wash  my  hands  of  her!" 

He  regarded  her  with  amusement  semi-detached 
from  sadness.  "You  know  perfectly  well,  my 
dear,  that  you  'd  do  anything  in  the  world  for  her 
— from  stopping  her  marriage  to  enduring  it,  if 
you  have  to!  So  why  pretend  this  desertion?" 

"Well,"  said  the  Duchess  crossly,  very  angry 
at  being  detected  in  an  amiable  weakness,  "if  I'm 
a  fool,  you  needn't  throw  it  up  to  me!" 


166      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

The  Duke  retired,  chuckling.  His  wife  was 
thoroughly  upset,  as  he  saw,  but  he  knew  he  could 
trust  to  her  good  heart  and  good  sense,  and  that  in 
the  end,  if  she  could  not  convert  Mary  to  her 
views,  she  would  at  least  keep  silent  about  them. 
The  Duchess  however  had  not  yet  given  up  hope. 

"Isn't  there  anything,"  she  said  later  in  the 
day  to  Ben  Baldwin  when  they  were  discussing  it, 
4 '  anything  in  the  life  of  Philip  Carmichael,  which, 
if  she  knew  of  it,  might  prevent  Mary  from  mak- 
ing this  marriage  1  She 's  a  woman  of  such  high 
principle.  Hasn't  he  ever  done  anything  which 
we  could  get  hold  of  and  use  against  him!" 

' '  Aunt ! ' '  said  Lady  Kitty  indignantly. 

"She  wouldn't  believe  it,"  answered  Ben. 

"Ah,  then  there  is  something!"  cried  the  Duch- 
ess keenly. 

"What  do  you  mean!"  asked  Ben,  mystified  by 
her  sudden  conviction,  which  had  seemed  to  come 
from  his  words. 

"Mr.  Baldwin,"  she  said  earnestly,  "you  knew 
Philip  Carmichael  well  years  ago.  A  man  with  a 
character  like  his  must  have  sown  a  good  many 
wild  oats.  I  beg  of  you,  if  you  know  of  anything 
that  he  has  ever  done,  something  that  might  prej- 
udice Mary  against  him,  which  might  just  pos- 
sibly prevent  this  marriage — to  speak  of  it!" 

Lady  Kitty  was  leaning  forward,  looking  at  her 
aunt  in  amazement. 

The  Duke  said  gravely:     "Don't  you  think  that 


it  is  taking  a  good  deal  on  ourselves — to  inter- 
fere— now  1 ' ' 

The  Duchess  paid  no  attention  to  either  of  them. 
"Well,  Mr.  Baldwin,  do  you  know  something 
which,  if  Mary  knew,  might  cause  her  to  hesitate 
— perhaps  change  her  mind  entirely?" 

"Aunt!  you  are  making  it  dreadfully  difficult 
for  Mr.  Baldwin!" 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  Ben  slowly.  "Only,  you 
see,  Phil  Carmichael  is  my  friend.  And  even  if 
there  were  anything  of  the  sort  you  mean,  of 
course  I — well,  naturally,  I  couldn  't  speak  of  it. ' ' 
He  hesitated  an  instant,  then  finished:  "But  I 
don't  know  of  anything,  I'm  glad  to  say,  that  need 
prevent  Mary  from  marrying  him. '  * 

The  Duchess  gave  him  a  searching  look. 

"Mary  is  your  friend,  too,"  she  said  almost 
warningly. 

"Yes,"  Ben  returned,  unflinching.  "My  very 
dear  friend;  they  both  are." 

"Yet  I  think  you  share  our  feeling  in  regard  to 
this  marriage,"  she  persisted. 

"Our  feelings  can't  change  things,"  he  an- 
swered. "We  can't  judge  for  them,  can  we! 
They  are  deeply  in  love  with  each  other.  If  it 
turns  out  to  be  a  blessing,  they  have  a  right  to 
it;  if  it  turns  out  to  be  a  mistake,  they  have  a 
right  to  that,  too.  Whatever  it  is,  it's  theirs,  not 
ours.  We  can 't  interfere. ' ' 

There  was  a  little  silence,  and  then  the  Duchess, 


168       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

almost  at  the  breaking  point,  said,  quite  meekly 
for  her:  "I  suppose  you  are  right." 

"You  see,"  the  Duke  explained  rather  heavily, 
4  *  it  is  hard  for  us ;  we  are  very  fond  of  our  Mary. 
She's  grown  to  be  like  a  daughter  to  us — and  we 
shall  lose  her." 

Ben  felt  intensely  sorry  for  them  both — this 
childless  pair,  whose  loneliness  would  be  so  im- 
mensely augmented  when  their  much-loved  god- 
child should  go  away. 

"Don't  take  such  a  gloomy  view  of  it,"  he  said 
kindly.  "America's  not  so  far  away,  after  all. 
And  in  time  you'll  grow  to  like  Carmichael — 
when  you  see  that  they  are  happy  together.  He 's 
a  fine  chap." 

"Not  fine  enough  for  Mary,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"You  wouldn't  think  any  one  that,"  said  Lady 
Kitty.  "But  I  like  him,  always  did.  Ben  does 
too,  Aunt,  and  he  knows  him  better  than  we  do." 

The  Duchess  sighed. 

"Well,  it  relieves  me  to  think  that  Mary  will  be 
with  her  old  friends — you  and  your  sister.  What 
are  her  plans,  do  you  know ! ' ' 

"I  do,"  said  Lady  Kitty.  "We  were  talking 
about  them  before  tea^  She  means  to  pack  and 
ship  her  own  personal  things  almost  immediately, 
and  return  to  America  when  Mr.  Baldwin  does. 
Then  she  will  go  to  Mr.  Baldwin's  sister  in  San 
Francisco  and  wait  for  Mr.  Carmichael.  He  will 
probably  join  her  there  by  Christmas;  then  they 
will  be  married  and  go  to  his  place  in  the  southern 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       169 

part  of  the  State  near  Los  Angeles,  I  think  she 
said. ' ' 

The  Duchess  looked  at  her  in  consternation. 

''It's  all  settled?"  she  asked  slowly. 

"Yes,  Aunt,  I'm  afraid  it  is.  Mary  told  me 
Mr.  Carmichael  had  planned  it  all.  He  is  no 
longer  an  M.  P.  now  that  Parliament  is  dissolved, 
you  see,  and  he  won't  stand  again,  so  he  will  fol- 
low her  out  as  soon  as  he  can  arrange  his  affairs 
here.  They  mean  to  be  married  and  start  in  on 
their  fruit-ranch  as  soon  as  possible. " 

"I  wouldn't  have  believed  that  Mary  could  do 
such  a  thing!"  the  Duchess  exclaimed.  "To  put 
aside  the  conventional  period  of  mourning- 
Mary  !  Why,  it  shocks  me ! " 

The  Duke,  feeling  as  troubled  as  his  wife,  yet 
knowing  more  of  the  intimate  facts,  said :  "Well, 
I  think  Sir  Arthur  would  have  wished  her  to  do 
just  what  she  is  doing.  He  made  a  great  stand, 
you  know,  for  the  absolutely  sincere  thing — 
wished  to  give  her  her  freedom  for  just  this 
cause. ' ' 

"Well — he  gave  her  her  freedom,"  the  Duchess 
answered  solemnly. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"Heart-breaks  and  songs, — 

Fate  leave  us  these, 
Since  no  man  prolongs 
Love's  joy  and  peace." 

PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON. 

THE  day  of  departure  for  America  drew 
near.  Mary  had  returned  from  her  visit 
in  the  Highlands  wonderfully  improved  in 
health  and  spirits.  She  set  herself  to  the  task  of 
packing  and  shipping  her  personal  possessions 
with  an  enthusiasm  that  she  had  not  shown  for 
years.  The  Duchess,  who  had  remained  in  the 
Highlands,  had  been  splendid  in  the  end,  putting 
her  personal  prejudice  aside,  and  anxious  to  help 
Mary  in  any  way  possible.  When  it  came  to  say- 
ing good-by,  she  quite  broke  down  and  cried  un- 
restrainedly. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  between  her  sobs,  "you 
are  going  so  far  away!  I  shan't  be  able  to  look 
after  you — or  scold  you — any  more.  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  be  of  use  in  any  emergency;  but  you'll 
let  me  know,  just  the  same  as  ever,  if  I  can  be, 
won't  you?" 

The  Duke  had  promised  to  see  her  in  London 
before  she  sailed,  and  one  day  when  he  was  not 
expected,  he  rang  the  bell  of  the  house  in  White- 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       171 

hall  Gardens.  He  was  left  for  a  few  minutes  in 
the  drawing-room  while  the  august  Turnbull  went 
to  announce  his  arrival.  The  Duke  realized  the 
strange  aspect  of  the  house  with  a  great  sinking 
of  the  heart.  The  furniture  and  hangings  were 
shrouded  in  linen  coverings,  the  polished  floor  no 
longer  reflected  gay  shadows  of  rose  and  gold. 
Most  of  the  ornaments  had  been  put  away,  and 
the  room  lacked  any  sense  of  intimate  personal 
touch.  "It  misses  her  already,"  he  thought. 
"It  doesn't  look  lived  in!" 

Mary  came  hastening  to  meet  him. 

"Godfather,  dear,  I  didn't  expect  you,  but,  oh, 
I'm  so  glad  to  see  you!"  She  put  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  kissed  his  cheek. 

"Just  think!"  she  said,  "it  is  only  day  after 
to-morrow ! ' ' 

1  i  I  know, ' '  he  sighed. 

He  released  her  gently  and  stood  looking  about 
the  dismantled  place. 

"When  I  think  of  all  this  room  has  seen!"  he 
said.  "How  you  came  here  a  bride,  how  you 
have  reigned  here  like  a  queen,  how  you  stood  here 
a  widow!  And  always  I've  been  with  you;  it 
was  I  who  came  back  with  you  after  the  funeral ; 
it  was  I  who  introduced  you  to  London ;  it  was  I 
who  gave  you  away  in  marriage!  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  do  that  this  time,  my  girl." 

"No,"  Mary  answered,  with  a  lump  in  her 
throat.  "And,  oh,  there  aren't  any  words  to  say 
how  I  shall  miss  you.  Of  all  that  I  am  leaving 


172       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

behind,  not  one  thing  really  matters  but  you! 
You've  been  a  father  to  me,  almost  more  than  a 
father,  if  that  could  be.  There  isn't  anything  I 
couldn't  tell  you;  there  isn't  any  trouble  or  any 
joy  I  couldn't  share  with  you,  and  know  you'd 
share  with  me.  I  don't  know,"  her  voice  broke 
a  little,  "how  I  shall  ever  do  without  you;  for 
you've  been  with  me  in  almost  every  big  event  of 
iny  life!" 

"In  every  sacrament,"  he  answered  dreamily, 
"which  you  have  had  so  far:  Baptism,  Con- 
firmation, Holy  Communion,  Holy  Matrimony. 
Mary,  these  are  the  big  events!" 

"So  they  are." 

"For  they  last.  And  they  prepare  you  for  the 
life  that  lasts.  This  one  passes — oh,  so  swiftly 
away ! ' ' 

She  had  drawn  a  low  stool  close  to  his  chair, 
and  sitting  there,  leaned  her  head  against  the  arm 
of  it.  He  could  not  see  her  face,  but  his  hands 
stroked  her  hair  delicately,  tenderly. 

'  *  Godfather,  dear,  you  forgot  one  of  the  Sacra- 
ments in  which  you  couldn't  be  with  me — penance. 
•The  very  morning  of  the  day  when  Philip  came 
back  into  my  life  I  had  gone  to  confession  and  com- 
munion. I  made  a  clean  breast  of  it  before  God ; 
all  that  was  wrong  in  it,  all  that  through  my  weak- 
ness— or — or  sin,  I  had  made  other  people  suffer. 
After  I  had  received  absolution,  I  went  and 
prayed  before  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  I  begged 
for  guidance,  that  I  might  be  shown  so  clearly  that 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       173 

I  could  not  doubt  what  was  right  for  me  to  do.  I 
prayed  a  long  time.  There  was  no  one  there  but 
our  Lord  and  me,  no  one  at  all,  at  first,  so  I  said 
all  that  was  in  my  heart.  And  when  I  came  up 
the  aisle  to  go  out,  I  met  Philip  near  the  door." 

The  Duke  waited  in  a  great  stillness. 

"Wasn't  it  my  answer?"  she  went  on,  after  a 
minute.  '  *  Just  as  I  had  asked  for  it,  so  plain  that 
I  could  not  doubt  it.  Think  of  his  coming  there, 
at  that  hour,  in  the  morning ! ' ' 

"You  drew  him  to  you,"  answered  the  Duke, 
with  his  mystic  look. 

"Mightn't  it  have  been — God?"  she  asked  in  a 
whisper. 

Again  they  were  silent  together  for  a  time. 
Then  she  said,  in  a  more  usual  tone  : 

'  *  I  wanted  you  to  know.  I  wanted  you  to  under- 
stand. It's  the  more  wonderful  because  Philip  is 
such  a  heretic!"  She  laughed  a  little  sadly. 
"He  really  doesn't  like  our  High  Church  ways; 
he  is  very  simple,  you  see,  and  our  ritual  doesn't 
appeal  to  him." 

"But  the  great  facts  of  our  religion;  what  of 
them — does  he  believe  in  them,  Mary?" 

"He  said  they  'didn't  mean  much  to  him',"  she 
answered. 

The  Duke  looked  pained.  "You  must  make 
them  mean  much;  you  must  convert  him.  Is  he 
baptized?" 

"Oh,  yes,  his  people  saw  to  that,  and  confirmed, 
too." 


174       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Then  he  has  the  mystic  mark,"  the  Duke  an- 
swered, relieved,  "and  sooner  or  later  its  power 
will  be  made  manifest  in  his  life.  Those  who  have 
that  sign  in  their  foreheads  may  wander  a  long 
way  from  the  Cross,  but  they  come  back — they 
must  always  come  back.  'I  have  called  thee  by 
name,  thou  art  Mine,  saith  the  Lord.'  Remem- 
ber!" 

"Yes,  dear  Godfather." 

A  sudden  idea  came  to  the  Duke.  "I  would 
like  to  see  him,"  he  said,  "before  you  go  away. 
Why  should  you  not  put  on  your  things  and  drive 
back  with  me  to  my  house?  Ben  Baldwin  is  there. 
He  is  staying  with  me  until  he  sails.  We  can 
telephone  Carmichael  and  ask  him  to  join  us." 

Mary  agreed,  and  an  hour  later  they  were  all 
four  assembled  in  the  Duke's  library.  Mary 
poured  tea  for  them,  and  while  they  drank  it, 
talked  gaily,  telling  of  their  plans  with  frank  con- 
fidence. She  made  merry  over  the  picture  she 
drew  of  herself  as  mistress  of  a  ranch,  appealing 
every  now  and  then  to  Philip  to  set  her  right  on 
some  point.  He,  drawn  out  by  her  enthusiasm 
and  the  Duke's  kindness,  spoke  of  their  new  life 
with  a  kind  of  boyish  hope  that  was  rather  touch- 
ing. 

"It  may  seem  to  be  a  somewhat  hard  environ- 
ment for  her  after  the  luxury  she  has  always 
had,"  he  said  rather  diffidently  to  the  Duke,  "but 
it's  a  fine  life  in  its  way.  Of  course,  I've  gone 
into  all  the  particulars  as  closely  as  I  can  at  this 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      175 

distance.  I  wrote  to  the  agent  out  there  and  re- 
ceived some  pictures  of  the  place,  the  other  day. 
I  have  them  here."  He  was  searching  his  pockets 
eagerly.  "Ah,  here  they  are.  The  little  house 
is  rather  charming,  I  think.  But  there  are  one  or 
two  improvements  I'm  going  to  have  made  for 
Mary." 

They  bent  over  the  pictures  with  the  delighted 
interest  of  children.  "See,  here's  the  ground- 
floor  plan,"  said  Carmichael  gaily.  "Look,  there 
is  this  window,"  comparing  it  with  the  picture  of 
the  house.  "It  is  quite  a  good-sized  room — the 
drawing-room. ' ' 

"  'Drawing-room'  on  a  ranch!"  scoffed  Ben,  in 
his  inimitable  drawl.  "Lord,  they'll  think  you  a 
tenderfoot  if  you  talk  like  that  out  there !  That's 
the  parlor." 

"Oh,  let's  say  *  living-room',"  laughed  Mary. 
"Look  at  this  foliage — and  the  pepper-trees!  I 
remember  them,  all  soft  and  feathery  with  scarlet 
berries.  And  the  roses — right  up  to  the  roof! 
Oh,  isn't  it  beautiful!" 

The  Duke  watched  them  wistfully,  Ben  with 
amusement,  until  he  saw  the  lines  deepen  in  his 
host's  fine  old  face.  Then  he  said  cheerily: 

"When  you  two  have  got  it  in  really  good  run- 
ning order,  you  can  invite  us  all  out  to  spend 
Christmas  with  you  some  year !  Mind,  I  say  good 
order.  I  don 't  wish, ' '  with  an  elaborately  superior 
air,  "to  share  any  'rough  western  hospitality.' 
"When  Phil  can  plough  and  pick,  and  chase  the 


176       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

chickens  in  at  night,  and  Mary  can  bake  good 
pies  and  pluck  the  chickens — as  well  as  the 
oranges — then,  and  not  until  then,  need  you  waste 
an  invitation  on  me ! ' ' 

They  were  laughing  at  him  all  the  way  through, 
the  Duke  more  heartily  than  any.  His  drollery 
saved  them  from  the  sadness  which  their  ap- 
proaching separation  made  inevitable.  Looking 
back  on  it  afterward,  it  seemed  to  them  all  one  of 
the  happiest  hours  of  that  eventful  year. 

The  Duke  had  a  detached  moment  with  Philip 
while  Mary  was  talking  to  Ben. 

"Treasure  her,"  he  said,  "for  she  is  a  treasure, 
the  greatest — save  God! — that  a  man  can  have 
on  earth,  and  sometimes,  I  think,  in  heaven, 
either. ' ' 

"Mary  is  heaven  and  earth  to  me,"  Philip  an- 
swered simply.  *  *  She 's  all  I  have — or  want. ' ' 

Meanwhile  Mary  was  saying  to  Ben:  "You'll 
understand  what  the  others  can't,  Bennie.  They 
think  I'm  giving  up  so  much,  such  a  rich,  full  life, 
they  actually  pity  me!  Think  of  it!  Why,  I'm 
throwing  off  a  life  that  has  held  me  down,  that 
didn't  belong  to  the  real  me  at  all.  I  was  an- 
other person  while  Lady  Stanhope.  Now  I  am 
going  back  to  myself,  I'm  going  home;  then  you'll 
see  the  real  Mary." 

"Mary  Carmichael  will  be  the  real  Mary?" 

"Mary  Carmichael!"  she  said,  with  a  catch  in 
her  voice.  "Oh,  Ben,  doesn't  it  sound  beautiful?'' 
He  laughed  at  her  kindly,  and  suddenly,  as  if  she 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       177 

had  only  just  realized  it,  she  looked  about  her 
with  saddening  eyes. 

"When  shall  I  see  this  dear  old  room  again?" 
she  said.  "Godfather  dear,  come  down  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  let  me  sing  you  your  favorite 
song  before  I  go.  You  must  keep  one  lovely  mem- 
ory of  me." 

"Only  one?"  said  the  Duke,  smiling  sadly. 

They  passed  out  together,  his  fine  old  face  work- 
ing under  its  cameo  calmness  of  line,  and  soon  the 
phrases  of  "I'm  wearin'  awa',  Jean,"  came  softly 
up  to  the  two  men  left  in  the  library.  It  was  the 
first  time  they  had  been  alone  for  several  months. 

"And  so,"  said  Ben,  regarding  his  friend  af- 
fectionately, "you'll  soon  be  'Benedict  the  mar- 
ried man'." 

"By  New  Year's,  I  hope,"  Philip  answered. 
"I  only  wait  to  sell  my  little  place  in  Ireland, 
and  wind  up  my  affairs  there  forever.  Then  I 
shall  put  every  shilling  I  have  into  the  California 
property  for  Mary." 

"Good.  It  will  be  a  big  change  for  you,  Phil, 
the  different  work." 

"I  think  I  shall  like  it.  Anyway,  I'm  going 
to  settle  down  to  it  in  earnest. ' ' 

"Well,  you've  had  a  long  youth  and  a  bril- 
liant one.  I  wouldn't  have  believed  that  you 
would  stay  unmarried  until — what  is  it — thirty- 
four?  You  were  such  a  popular  fellow  back  in 
the  nineties,  especially  with  the  girls." 

"Pshaw!"  said  Philip. 


178      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"I  really  thought  one  affair  was  serious, — you 
remember?" 

Philip's  straight  brows  contracted. 

"You  mean  Sheelah?  Yes,  of  course  I  remem- 
ber." He  turned  away  and  walked  over  to  the 
window.  "I  wish  I  didn't.  Worst  thing  I  ever 
did  in  my  life,  for  she  was — straight.  However, 
it  was  a  matter  of — a  few  weeks  only — and  I  did 
the  best  I  could  by  her  in  the  end. ' ' 

"Never  heard  from  her?" 

"Never,  from  that  day  to  this.  And  it's  years 
ago,  now.  That  sort  of  thing  is  all  behind  in  the 
past.  There  hasn't  been  any  woman  in  my  life 
for  the  past  two  years,  and  of  course  there  never 
will  be  now — but  Mary.  The  slate's  clean." 

In  the  pause  that  followed  came  the  last  line 
of  the  song: 

"We'll  meet  and  aye  be  fain 
In  the  land  Q    the  leal" 

and  a  moment  later  Mary's  voice  called:  "Oh, 
Phil!  are  you  ready  to  take  me  home?" 

He  went  down  to  join  her,  and  Ben  was  left 
alone.  He  stood  leaning  against  the  mantel,  his 
thoughts  many  miles  and  years  away. 

"Poor  little  Sheelah,"  he  said  softly.  The 
sound  of  their  good-by  came  to  him,  and  he  went 
to  the  window  and  waved  to  them  cheerily.  Then 
he  came  back  to  the  mantel,  nervously  bit  off  the 
end  of  his  cigar,  lit  it,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"So — the  slate  is  wiped  clean,"  he  said  thought- 
fully. 


Book  II 


CHAPTER  I 

'And  the  cedars  are  brushing  the  archangel's  feet, 
And  time  is  eternity,  love  is  divine, 
And  the  world  is  complete. 


O  Life,  O  Beyond, 

Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet!" 

MRS.  BROWNING. 

LONG  after  the  Minnehaha  had  left  her  pier, 
and  while  the  white  chalk  cliffs  of  Eng- 
land were  fading  from  her  sight  in  the 
twilight  gloom,  Mary  Stanhope  stayed  on  deck, 
and  let  her  thoughts  drift  as  they  would.  A 
great  reaction  was  upon  her.  The  excitement  of 
preparation,  the  rush  and  hurry  of  last  things, 
the  calls  of  friends,  the  final  good-bys  had  passed. 
She  leaned  back  in  her  deck-chair  with  a  sense 
of  comfortable  weariness.  Everything  about  her 
seemed  to  relax.  The  wrench  was  over — the 
wrench  of  parting  from  the  old  Duke,  the  wrench 
of  temporary  separation  from  Philip,  the  hold  of 
her  old  life.  It  was  all  over,  left  behind.  She 
felt  an  odd  sense  of  its  unreality,  as  if  it  had  been 
a  dream,  and  before  her  lay  the  awakening. 
Something  like  this  she  said  to  Ben  Baldwin, 
when  he  joined  her  on  deck  after  dinner. 

"You  know,  Ben,  looking  back,  it  seems  as  if 
it  had  never  really  belonged  to  me,  my  life  there 


182      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

in  Whitehall  Gardens.  It  wasn't  the  real  me  who 
lived  there  all  those  years;  it  was  me  acting  the 
part  of  Lady  Mary  Stanhope.  I  don't  mean  that 
I  was  unhappy;  I  wasn't.  I  liked  the  part  as  a 
part.  But  it  is  different  from  real  life." 

"So  you  are  going  to  be  real  from  now  on?" 
he  asked,  smiling  a  little  at  her  earnestness. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  can't  imagine  any  one  being  any- 
thing else  in  America.  They  wouldn't  stand  for 
it,  would  they?" 

"Don't  idealize  it  too  much,"  he  said  warn- 
ingly,  "or  you  will  be  disappointed.  'Life  is  real, 
life  is  earnest'  over  there,  sure  enough,  but  it's 
far  from  perfect.  You'll  miss  many  things,  meet 
many  disappointments,  find  many  changes." 

"The  things  that  don't  matter!"  she  answered 
with  gay  confidence.  "The  disappointments  that 
teach  you  things,  the  changes  that  are  good  for 
you!  Bennie,  don't  you  be  a  dismal  old  prophet 
of  woe.  I'm  not  afraid  of  anything;  I'm  going 
to  be  happy." 

"Of  course  you  are,"  he  assented,  "you 
couldn't,  with  your  nature,  be  anything  else,  for 
long.  Besides,  you  will  have  all  that  is  necessary 
to  make  you  so,  in  my  opinion." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  see  that,  Ben,"  she  said 
eagerly.  "Because,  you  know,  the  others  don't. 
They  pity  me,  actually  pity  me!"  She  laughed 
gaily.  "They  think  I  am  giving  up  so  much! 
They  think  London  society  the  only  thing  in  the 
world,  and  a  town  house  and  dinner-parties  and 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       183 

entertainments  and  a  place  in  the  country,  the 
only  things  worth  striving  for!" 

"Well,  they  are  pretty  nice,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"Of  course,  if  everything  else  is.  But  I'd 
rather  share  in  a  struggle  with  the  man  I  love 
— and  so  would  any  woman — than  halve  a  ready- 
made  position  with  any  other.  Maybe  Philip  is 
giving  up  much,  but  not  I.  Do  you  think  he  will 
miss  his  work  very  much,  Ben?"  she  finished  wist- 
fully. 

"Not  too  much,"  he  answered.  "Phil's  many- 
sided  and  adaptable.  He'll  find  other  work  to 
interest  him.  He  is  the  sort  of  man  who  will  al- 
ways be  good  at  his  job." 

Her  face  glowed.  "Isn't  he  splendid,  my 
Phil ! ' '  They  were  silent  a  moment,  sympathetic- 
ally. Then  she  continued:  "Have  you  ever 
thought,  Ben,  that  a  woman's  natural  position  in 
love  is  to  look  up  to  a  man?  Our  eyes  are  a 
hand's  breadth  lower  than  yours;  and,  oh, 
wouldn't  it  be  dreadful  if  we  had  to  look  down, 
or  even  across  at  you?" 

From  out  of  his  wider  experience  and  more 
tolerant  knowledge,  Ben  looked  at  her  kindly  and 
smiled. 

"Mothers  look  down,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  on  babies  and  children!" 

* '  To  mother-women,  I  guess  we  men  are  always 
babies,"  he  answered. 

She  subsided  into  the  depths  of  her  steamer 
chair. 


184       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Well,  I'm  glad  I  can  look  up  to  my  man," 
she  said  contentedly. 

The  memory  of  his  face  came  before  her  as  he 
had  looked  when  they  said  good-by.  She  saw  the 
look  of  the  blue-gray  eyes,  the  lines  which 
tightened  around  the  mouth,  as  he  kissed  her 
sharp  and  sudden,  and  then  held  her  away  from 
him.  She  thrilled  under  the  memory  of  it,  and 
trembled  under  the  thrill.  It  was  so  tremendous, 
this  force  which  swept  them  together,  so  impa- 
tient of  control,  so  wonderful  as  it  searched  out 
the  deep,  secret  places  of  her  nature,  filling  them 
with  itself  as  a  high  tide  fills  an  ocean  cave. 

Then  she  thought  of  the  Duke,  and  in  her  mind 
saw  his  face,  too,  as  she  had  clung  to  him  with 
tears. 

"There,  there,"  he  had  said  cheerily,  making 
a  great  effort  himself,  as  he  patted  her  and  faced 
her  with  dry  eyes,  "good-by,  my  Mary.  This  is 
the  last  I  shall  see  of  my  Mary ;  it  will  be  Philip 's 
Mary  when  we  meet  again." 

"Oh,  Godfather  dear,  when  will  that  be!" 

"Sooner  than  you  think,  perhaps.  Who 
knows?"  he  had  answered  cheerily.  Then  he  had 
added,  taking  her  face  tenderly  between  his  hands : 
"Go  to  your  happiness,  child  of  love;  but  set  up 
no  idol  in  your  sanctuary.  One — One  only  reigns 
there.  Good-by,  my  Mary." 

Her  eyes  were  wet  as  she  recalled  the  fine  con- 
trol of  the  face,  the  erect  figure,  and,  as  the  big 
boat  glided  away,  the  raised  hat  and  the  beautiful 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       185 

courtesy  of  manner  which  always  set  him  apart 
from  his  fellows.  Long  after  she  would  remem- 
ber him  so,  would  see  him  the  more  clearly 
through  dimming  eyes. 

She  and  Ben  had  many  happy  talks  during  the 
voyage.  She  made  him  tell  her  all  he  could  re- 
member of  California,  refreshing  her  own  memory 
of  it,  which  was  only  that  of  the  ordinary  tourist. 

"Has  the  rainy  season  come  yet?"  she  would 
ask,  "or  is  it  still  all  brown  and  burned-up  and 
dusty?  We  shall  miss  the  English  rain,  shan't 
we?  Just  think  of  days  and  days  without  a  cloud 
in  the  sky!" 

"You'll  miss  the  English  servants  more  than 
anything,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  but  there'll  be  Chinese,  won't  there,  or 
Japanese?" 

"If  they  stay,"  he  replied  grimly.  "Poor  Jess 
writes  me  terrible  tales  of  woe  about  hers,  now 
and  then." 

"Well,  I  don't  mean  to  be  dependent  on  them, 
anyway,"  she  said.  "I  mean  to  learn  how  to  do 
everything  myself." 

He  lightly  lifted  her  hand  by  its  forefinger  and 
gave  it  a  little  shake. 

"This?"  he  said,  laughing.  "This  learn  how 
to  wash  and  iron  and  cook  and  scrub?" 

"And  plant  and  hoe  and  dig,"  she  answered, 
nodding  gaily.  "Oh,  I  shall  love  it  all!  I  shall 
be  so  busy  and  so  happy.  It  will  be  real !  I  shall 
actually  be  of  use  in  the  world,  a  real  woman  full 


186      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

of    work.    You    don't    realize,    you    men,    how 
splendid  it  is  to  have  real,  necessary  work  to  do !" 

"Well,  I  wish  you  joy  of  it,"  he  said,  "but  I 
advise  you  to  learn  all  you  can  from  Jess  in  this 
month  or  so  that  you  are  with  her.  She  knows 
the  country  and  the  conditions — and  you." 

"I  wish  she  didn't  live  so  far  from  us;  and 
you,  Ben,  couldn't  you  move  your  stock-broking 
business,  or  whatever  it  is,  from  New  York  out 
to  San  Francisco!  It  would  be  so  nice  if  we 
could  all  be  together!" 

' '  Want  to  found  a  colony  of  your  friends  t ' ' 

"Well,  yes;  and  in  time  I'll  get  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  to  come  and  bring  Lady  Kitty,"  she 
added  slyly. 

But  Ben  refused  to  be  drawn  on  that  subject. 

"That'd  be  fine,"  he  agreed  laconically. 

The  voyage  came  to  an  end,  and  Ben  put  her  on 
board  her  train  for  San  Francisco.  "Wish  I 
could  come,  too,"  he  said,  "but  Sis  will  meet  you 
at  the  other  end,  and  I'll  come  out  for  a  visit  be- 
fore long.  My  love  to  her  and  the  kiddies.  How 
they'll  welcome  you!  I  expect  you  will  be  'Aunt 
May '  to  them  in  no  time. ' ' 

*  *  Dear  Ben,  how  bully  you  Ve  been  to  me ! ' ' 

"Getting  quite  American  already,"  he  noted. 

"Am,"  she  answered  proudly. 

"So  long,"  he  said,  as  the  last  "all  aboard" 
sounded.  "So  long — good  luck — good-by." 

Mary  was  glad  of  the  five  days'  journey  and 
the  quiet  of  her  own  happy  thoughts.  She  read 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       187 

a  little,  but  mostly  dreamed  as  she  sped  over  the 
prairies  and  plains,  through  the  great  farm  lands 
of  the  middle  west,  and  over  the  stupendous  Rock- 
ies and  the  fertile  region  beyond,  until  the  sense 
of  another  sea  grew  imminent  to  her,  and  she 
realized  that  the  great  continent  was  crossed,  her 
long  journey  ended,  and  that  before  her  were  the 
waiting  eyes  and  welcoming  hands  of  friends. 

It  was  a  most  simple,  yet  happy  and  complete 
American  home  to  which  Jessie  Dwight  took  Mary 
straight  from  the  Overland  Limited  at  Oakland. 
The  two  women,  who  had  not  met  for  years,  were 
so  full  of  reminiscence  and  questions,  of  gossip 
and  comparison  of  experiences,  that  the  journey 
in  the  motor  from  the  station  to  the  house  seemed 
to  take  no  time  at  all.  Mr.  Dwight,  who  had  come 
with  his  wife  to  welcome  her  friend,  sat  on  the 
front  seat  and  occasionally  turned  to  point  out 
something  of  interest,  but  it  scarcely  interrupted 
their  conversation,  except  for  a  perfunctory 
glance,  and  then  they  were  absorbed  again  in  their 
chatter  and  laughter. 

"Of  course  Ben  wrote  me  something  about  it 
all,"  Mrs.  Dwight  said,  her  hand  closing  warmly 
on  Mary's,  under  the  lap  robe.  "And,  my  dear, 
it  is  the  most  romantic  story !  I  want  to  hear  the 
whole  of  it  from  you,  when  you  feel  like  telling 
it  to  me." 

"That  will  be  soon,"  said  Mary.  "Oh,  Jess, 
how  good  it  seems  to  be  talking  confidences  to 


188       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

you  again !  I  suppose  you  will  soon  be  ordering 
me  about,  you  executive  little  person,  just  as  you 
used  to  do!" 

Mrs.  Dwight  laughed  delightedly.  "Of  course 
I  shall.  And  one  of  the  first  things  I  shall  order 
is  that  you  take  off  this  somber  black,  and  grow 
into  our  gay-hearted  May  again. " 

"I  know  I've  changed,"  said  Mary,  in  a  low 
voice.  "And  if  the  black  depresses  you,  perhaps 
before  long,  I  may  lay  it  aside."  Her  hand 
smoothed  her  knee  nervously,  and  Mrs.  Dwight,  to 
change  the  subject,  asked:  "When  is  Mr.  Car- 
michael  coming  ? ' ' 

"By  Christmas,  I  hope." 

"Well,  we  must  have  you  looking  like  a  bride 
by  that  time;  it's  less  than  two  months  away,  but 
we  can  do  it.  California  can  do  marvellous 
things.  You  won't  know  yourself  after  a  few 
weeks  of  our  heavenly  climate.  Here  we  are. 
Don't  look  back  yet.  Let  us  show  you  our  view 
from  the  porch." 

The  car  had  stopped  at  a  charming  little  house 
in  the  quiet,  residential  section.  Two  boys  of  six 
and  eight,  who  had  been  playing  ball  in  front  of 
the  house,  stopped  and  came  down  to  the  side  of 
the  car  at  once,  half-eagerly,  half -shyly. 

"Frank — Roger — this  is  mother's  old  friend, 
Lady  Stanhope ;  and  perhaps  if  you  are  very  nice 
to  her,  she  '11  let  you  call  her  Aunt  May. ' ' 

The  boys  shook  hands  with  frank  friendship; 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       189 

one  of  them  took  her  bag  and  the  other  her  um- 
brella, and  escorted  her  up  to  the  porch. 

"Now  you  can  see  the  view!"  said  Roger 
proudly,  pointing  west. 

Mary  turned,  and  her  face  lit  up  with  enthu- 
siasm. * '  It  is  most  beautiful ! ' '  she  said. 

"Sure  it  is,"  answered  Eoger.  "That's  the 
Golden  Gate  out  there." 

"Really?"  she  cried.  "Between  those  two 
great  headlands?" 

"Sure,"  answered  the  boy.  "You  can  see  the 
sun  drop  down  between  'em  in  a  few  minutes. 
There  she  goes  now — just  coming  out  o '  that  pink 
cloud!  Now  do  you  see  why  it  is  called  the 
Golden  Gate?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see!  Why,  it  seems  to  be  raining 
gold!"  ' 

"That's  California!"  laughed  Mr.  Dwight. 

Frank  came  up  and  interrupted  this  rhapsody. 
"Ah  Sin  has  made  a  most  bee-utiful  supper  for 
you,"  he  announced  solemnly. 

Laughing,  they  adjourned  to  the  inside  of  the 
house.  An  elderly  Chinaman  in  immaculate  white 
coat  and  blue  trousers  bowed  a  dignified  welcome 
and  smiled  a  radiant,  Oriental  smile,  which  quite 
fascinated  Mary.  She  followed  Mrs.  Dwight  up- 
stairs, the  boys  in  the  rear,  falling  over  her  bag 
and  umbrella,  while  Mr.  Dwight,  in  the  hall  below, 
begged  them  not  to  be  long.  They  were  all  chat- 
ting cheerily  and  freely,  and  she  felt  her  heart 


190       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

warm  to  them  and  to  the  cordial  family  life  which 
was  to  be  hers  for  the  next  few  weeks. 

Mrs.  Dwight  turned  the  boys  out  and  gave 
Mary  a  second  hug.  "  A  real  one,"  she  said,  "for 
there  wasn't  time  at  the  station.  May,  darling, 
this  is  one  of  the  loveliest  things  that  ever  hap- 
pened to  me:  that  our  paths  should  cross  again, 
that  you  should  have  come  all  these  thousands 
of  miles  actually  to  live  in  the  same  State.  It 
seems  too  wonderful  to  be  true." 

"Yes,  isn't  it!" 

"I've  always  thought  real  life  more  wonder- 
ful than  books.  Why,  people  wouldn't  dare  write 
the  real  stories  of  life.  It's  too  terrible — and 
beautiful. ' ' 

"Yes,"  Mary  answered,  "ours  has  been  like 
that,  terrible  and  beautiful,  too.  But  now  the  ter- 
rible part  is  all  behind.  It  is  all  over,  done  with. 
We  start  in  a  new  country  with  a  clean  slate. 
You'll  like  my  Philip,  Jessie." 

"Of  course  I  shall,  you  blessed  girl.  And  is  it 
to  be — soon!" 

"As  soon  as  Philip  comes,  by  Christmas  or  New 
Year's,  anyway." 

Mary  thought  she  noted  a  look  of  surprise  on 
her  friend's  face.  But  Mrs.  Dwight  kissed  her 
and  said  nothing.  Mary,  however,  was  quick  to 
feel  the  reserve,  and  though  she  put  the  thought 
of  it  from  her  at  the  moment,  she  remembered  it 
later. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       191 

They  walked  down-stairs  together,  their  arms 
around  each  other  like  schoolgirls.  Mr.  Dwight 
beamed  at  them  from  the  depths  of  his  easy  chair 
and  then  struggled  to  his  feet  as  they  entered  the 
room. 

"You  make  a  picture!'*  he  said  genially. 
"Don't  you  think  the  wife  has  grown  pretty,  Lady 
Stanhope?" 

"She  always  was,"  said  Mary  affectionately. 

"He  loves  to  make  out  that  I  am  a  walking  ad- 
vertisement for  his  care  and  good  treatment," 
laughed  Mrs.  Dwight.  "This,  my  dear,  is  the  liv- 
ing-room. We  used  to  call  it  'the  parlor'  in  un- 
regenerate  days,  but  that  isn't  done  any  more  'in 
the  best  circles.'  " 

Mary  looked  about  her  with  appreciation.  A 
log  fire  was  burning  in  the  large,  brick  fireplace. 
Comfortable  easy  chairs  stood  before  it,  a  table 
with  papers  and  magazines  was  placed  on  one 
side  of  the  hearth,  another  table  full  of  miscel- 
laneous sewing  on  the  other.  A  dog  lay  on  the 
rug,  and  a  cat  arched  its  back  against  her  skirt. 
In  the  wide  window-seat  the  two  boys  were  play- 
ing, and  beyond  the  garden  showed,  still  gay  with 
geraniums,  though  it  was  November.  Simple  as  it 
was,  and  small  as  the  little  house  appeared  to  her, 
the  charm  of  intimate,  family  life  was  over  it  all. 
Every  corner  of  it  seemed  used  and  lived  in  and 
made  happy  by  the  inmates. 

Ah  Sin,  in  his  immaculate  dress  and  with  his 


192       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

gleaming  smile,  cooked  and  served  the  evening 
meal.  " Heathen  food,"  Jessie  said,  "but  we 
eat  it  with  a  Christian  blessing. ' ' 

It  was  all  very  delicious,  very  simple,  very 
merry  and  kind,  as  was  the  talk  afterward  before 
the  fire  in  the  living-room.  Mr.  Dwight  described 
to  her  that  part  of  the  country  which  was  to  be 
her  new  home:  its  climate  and  seasons,  its 
products  and  prices,  its  advantages  and  disadvan- 
tages. 

"George  does  know  his  subject,"  said  Mrs. 
Dwight,  her  hand  resting  on  the  arm  of  her  hus- 
band's chair.  "He  is  a  native  Calif ornian,  you 
know,  May,  and  they  all  love  to  expatiate  on  the 
glories  of  their  State." 

"I  don't  wonder." 

Mr.  Dwight 's  face  beamed  at  her  enthusiastic 
tone.  "Well,  it  is  a  great  State,  and  you  are  go- 
ing to  one  of  the  most  lovely  parts  of  it,  there  in 
the  south.  It 's  really  a  sort  of  earthly  Paradise. ' ' 

' '  Santa  Rita  is  its  pretty  name.  You  know  she 
—Saint  Rita — is  the  saint  of  the  impossible,"  said 
Mary. 

"Well,  I  hope  the  place  won't  be  impossible," 
said  Mrs.  Dwight. 

"It  is  probably  a  little  township  of  few  families, 
each  living  on  and  operating  a  big  orange  ranch," 
her  husband  returned.  "I  wonder  what  sort  of 
social  conditions  you'll  find  and  how  you  will  like 
them,  Lady  Stanhope." 

"I  wonder?"  she  replied.    "But  I  don't  think 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       193 

I  shall  mind  them,  whatever  they  are,  under  the 
circumstances." 

He  smiled  at  her  kindly.  "You  mean  the  cir- 
cumstances of  a  happy  marriage?"  he  said 
jovially.  "Tell  us,  when  is  it  to  be?" 

"As  soon  as  Mr.  Carmichael  arrives — by  Christ- 
mas, I  hope." 

Mary  saw  his  face  change  as  his  wife's  had 
changed  up-stairs,  when  she  had  told  her.  She 
inferred  that  they  were  a  little  surprised,  pos- 
sibly a  little  shocked,  at  the  curtailing  of  her 
period  of  mourning.  But  her  conscience  was 
clear  on  that  point.  In  her  heart  she  did  not 
mourn  her  husband.  How  could  she,  with  another 
live  love  singing  there?  She  thought  of  Sir  Ar- 
thur often,  but  with  no  sense  of  disquietude; 
rather  as  of  an  old  friend,  gratefully,  ap- 
preciatively, sometimes  sadly,  and  frequently 
with  a  sense  of  loss.  But  she  was  doing  the  thing 
he  himself  had  wished  her  to  do.  She  would 
never  have  consented  to  divorce.  To  death,  she 
must  perforce  consent. 

"Mr.  Carmichael  must  stay  with  us  when  he 
comes,"  said  hospitable  Mrs.  Dwight. 

"It  will  be  only  for  a  day  or  two,"  answered 
Mary.  ' '  You  have  met  him,  haven 't  you  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  yes,  ten  years  ago!  He  stayed  with  us 
one  summer  vacation.  But  we  were  all  children, 
at  least  it  seems  so  now.  Why,  it  was  before  I 
knew  you,  Mary!  I  couldn't  have  been  eighteen. 
I  didn't  know  him  very  well.  He  and  Ben  were 


194       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

away  together  a  good  deal  in  New  York,  I  remem- 
ber." 

Before  they  separated  for  the  night,  Mrs. 
Dwight  came  into  Mary's  room  and  began  to  help 
her  unpack  her  dressing-bag. 

'  *  That  is  the  worst  of  a  Chinaman-run  house, ' ' 
she  grumbled  good-naturedly.  "You  never  get 
any  ladies-maiding!  Ah  Sin  can  do  every- 
thing but  that.  Your  trunks  will  be  up  in  the 
morning,  dear,  first  thing.  Can  I  lend  you  any- 
thing?" 

"I  think  I  have  everything,"  answered  Mary, 
beginning  to  unwrap  "the  most  important  arti- 
cle," as  she  said. 

Jessie  watched  her  with  interest.  "Oh,"  she 
exclaimed  at  last,  when  a  heavy  silver  frame  was 
disclosed,  "I  might  have  known  it  would  be  his 
picture ! ' ' 

Mary  placed  it  on  the  table  and  stood  before 
it,  worshipping  it  with  her  eyes.  Jessie,  standing 
beside  her,  said  thoughtfully: 

"Do  you  know,  it  never  struck  me  before,  but 
he  is  rather  like  you,  only  more  so;  you  know 
what  I  mean?  Gray  eyes — aren't  they — instead 
of  blue  like  yours,  and  brown  hair,  instead  of — 
what  color  is  your  hair,  Mary?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mary,  smiling. 

"Well,  fairish.  Anyhow,  you'll  go  together 
like  two  shades  of  the  same  color.  He's  the 
darker  shade  of  you,  or  you  the  lighter  one  of 
him,  whichever  way  you  want  to  put  it.  Oh,  my 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       195 

dear,  blessed,  sweet  old  chum,  I  do  hope  you'll 
be  happy!" 

They  clung  together  a  moment  in  silence. 

" Don't  love  him  too  much,"  Jessie  said  warn- 
ingly,  after  a  little. 

"Why?" 

"Because  it  isn't  good  for  men.  Oh,  yes,  I 
know  we  long  to  give  freely,  as  they  think  they 
want  it.  But  they  don't  really.  They  want  to 
have  to  beg  for  every  bit.  Make  'em  beg!" 

"Pshaw!  Story-book  cynicism,  Jess,  second- 
hand! You  don't  mean  a  word  of  it!" 

"Do,  too!"  asserted  Jessie. 

"Don't  believe  you!"  smiled  Mary,  dropping 
into  the  odd  staccato  of  the  family  utterance. 
"And,  anyhow,"  she  continued,  "I'm  so  rich  I  can 
afford  to  give  more  than  I  get!" 

After  Jessie  left  her  for  the  night,  she  stood  a 
long  time  looking  into  the  pictured  face.  All 
Philip's  gay  audacity  smiled  back  at  her.  The 
familiar  charm  of  his  personality  came  to  her  as 
freshly  as  if  he  were  in  the  room  with  her.  She 
put  her  hand  with  a  caressing  gesture  over  the 
face. 

"Dear,  level  eyes,  set  far  apart,  dear  hands, 
dear  heart,  come  soon ! ' '  she  said  aloud,  softly. 


CHAPTER  II 

Set  me  as  a  seal  upon  thy  heart, 
As  a  seal  upon  thine  arm: 
For  love  is  strong  as  death. 

SONG  OF  SOLOMON. 

THE  weeks  slipped  by  swiftly.  Thanks  to 
practical  Mrs.  Dwight,  Mary  really  did 
learn  something  about  the  manage- 
ment of  a  small  house  on  a  small  income.  The 
two  went  shopping  together  in  San  Francisco,  for 
Mrs.  Dwight  insisted  that  Mary  needed  "  com- 
moner clothes"  for  the  ranch.  "I  haven't  yet 
seen  you  wear  a  thing  that  wouldn't  scandalize 
the  natives  by  its  extravagance!"  she  scolded 
sweet-temperedly.  So  blue  serges  and  cotton 
stuffs  came  back  to  Oakland  from  the  shops,  and 
were  made  up  at  home,  while  they  busily  sewed 
and  chatted  and  planned.  Philip's  letters  came 
twice  weekly,  and  he  expected  to  be  with  them  by 
Christmas.  It  seemed  best,  he  wrote,  that  he 
should  go  straight  to  the  ranch,  see  that  it  was 
habitable  for  her,  and  then  come  and  fetch  her. 
He  wanted  to  be  sure  that  it  was  at  least  in  some 
sort  of  comfortable  condition  before  taking  her 
there. 

Early  in  December  Mary  had  his  wire :    ' '  Just 
landed,  starting  west  to-morrow.    In  Santa  Bita 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       197 

by  Friday,  with  you  week  after.  Be  prepared  to 
come  with  me.  All  my  love." 

Mary  read  it  with  shining  eyes  and  face  flush- 
ing with  joy.  ''Actually  in  the  same  country!" 
she  cried  excitedly.  "Almost  here!" 

"Half  way  to  Chicago  I  suppose,  by  now,"  said 
Jessie  teasingly,  but  equally  excited.  "He 
doesn't  say  whether  Ben  is  coming,"  she  added. 

A  few  days  later  there  came  a  letter  from  Ben, 
saying:  "Saw  dear  old  Phil  in  New  York  for  a 
few  hours.  Seemed  like  old  times.  Mighty  sorry 
I  can't  be  with  you.  My  partner  balled  things 
up  so  during  my  absence  in  England  that  I  sim- 
ply daren't  leave  again  at  this  juncture.  Give 
my  love  to  Mary.  You'll  be  disappointed,  Sis,  I 
know,  that  I'm  not  coming,  but  nothing  like  as 
much  as  I  am." 

"Oh!"  said  Jessie  disconsolately,  as  she  folded 
the  letter. 

"Oh!"  said  Mary,  "Oh,  oh,  oh!" 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  can't  be  helped,"  said 
Ben 's  sister,  with  a  sigh.  ' '  Gracious  me,  but  New 
York  does  seem  a  long  way  off  when  one  remem- 
bers that  all  one's  family  is  there — 'cept  who  are 
here!" 

"Well,  there  are  quite  a  lot  of  us  here!"  Mr. 
Dwight  exclaimed  indignantly,  "what  with  me  and 
the  boys ! ' ' 

They  all  laughed,  but  the  disappointment  was 
keen. 

"And  it  is  all  very  well  for  Philip  Carmichael  to 


198       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

say  'Be  prepared.'  Just  like  a  man!*'  Mrs. 
Dwight  scolded ;  * '  when  we  haven 't  settled  a  thing 
about  the  wedding  from  waiting  to  hear  from 
Mm!" 

Mary  smilingly  drew  Jessie's  arm  through 
hers  and  said:  "Come  up-stairs  with  me,  and 
we'll  settle  it  now."  As  they  opened  the  door 
leading  into  the  hall,  they  saw  a  messenger  boy 
standing  there  with  a  telegram.  Mary  seized  it, 
while  Jessie  signed  for  it. 

"Find  things  fairly  comfortable  here,  old  care- 
taker in  charge.  Will  be  with  you  Monday.  All 
my  love.  Philip,"  read  Mary  aloud. 

"Monday!  Why  it's  Saturday  now!"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Dwight. 

Mary  seized  her  and  began  to  waltz  her  about 
"Oh,  Jess,  Jess,  Jess!  Isn't  it  too  wonderful  to 
be  true. ' ' 

"My  goodness,  yes!"  panted  Mrs.  Dwight. 
"Here  Roger — Frank — come  here  and  save 
Mother  from  this  wild  bear-hug!" 

The  children  joined  in  the  romp  with  much 
glee,  and  each  was  "bear-hugged"  by  Mary,  and 
each  fought  valiantly  for  his  escape,  amid  cries 
of  "Kill  the  old  cinnamon!  There  she  goes! 
Old  Cinnamon's  dead!"  as  Mary,  flushed,  dishev- 
eled, and  breathless,  fell  laughing  on  the  stairs. 
"Stop  insulting  my  hair,"  she  said,  when  she 
could  speak.  "  Old  cinnamon,  indeed !  Shall  you 
be  sorry  to  lose  your  'Lady  May,'  you  scamps?" 

"Shan't  lose  you!"  said  Frank  stoutly. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       199 

"Well,  then,  you  shan't,  dears,"  she  answered, 
"but  like  the  fairy,  you  lose  one,  to  gain  two." 

"Who's  the  other?"  "Will  he  be  a  lord?" 
they  inquired  simultaneously. 

"He'll  be  my  lord,"  she  answered,  as  she  went 
up-stairs,  "and  master." 

When  they  reached  her  room,  she  turned  to 
Jessie.  "You've  been  such  a  darling,  taught  me 
such  a  lot,  and  I'm  so  grateful.  I  appreciate  it 
all  the  more  because  I  can't  help  feeling  that  in 
your  hearts  you  and  George  are  rather  shocked 
at  my  marrying  so  soon." 

"Oh,  George  is  a  Presbyterian,"  said  his  wife, 
drawling  the  word  out  in  Scotch  fashion,  "and  a 
great  stickler  for  the  conventions.  Don't  mind 
him.  As  for  me,  whatever  you  do  is  right  for  me. 
So  that  settles  that!"  She  gave  Mary  an  af- 
fectionate kiss  and  added,  to  change  the  subject: 
"Well,  we  can't  really  do  anything  until  Philip 
comes,  can  we?" 

"Except  pack,"  said  Mary,  rolling  back  her 
sleeves  and  preparing  to  start  in. 

After  the  first  eager,  tumultuous  moments  of 
reunion  had  passed — moments  without  words  or 
the  need  of  them,  to  the  lovers,  moments  which 
held  a  frightening  joy,  so  powerful  was  the  feel- 
ing between  them — they  spoke  almost  in  whis- 
pers. 

"Lord,  how  I've  wanted  you,  Mary!  And  you 
— tell  me — it'd  be  sweet  to  hear  you  say  it;  have 


200      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

you  wanted  me,  too?"    He  tried  to  see  her  face, 
which  she  kept  hidden  against  his  breast. 

"I  daren't  tell  you  how  muchl" 

He  crushed  her  to  him,  so  hard  that  it  hurt, 
and  she  shut  her  eyes  and  held  her  breath,  and 
loved  the  pain  of  it.  Finally  he  swept  her  off  her 
feet  and  carried  her  bodily  over  to  the  sofa. 

"Now,  then,"  he  said  eagerly,  "are  you  ready 
to  come  back  with  me  in  a  day  or  two?" 

4 'I'm  all  packed,"  she  answered,  smiling. 

*  *  That 's  splendid !  I  'm  ready,  too ! "  He  drew 
a  package  from  his  pocket.  "I've  got  the  mar- 
riage license  and  the  ring;  try  if  it  fits  you,  dear- 
est." 

"It's  perfect!"  she  said,  slipping  it  on. 

1 '  See — it  opens. "  He  took  it  from  her,  to  show 
her  the  trick  of  it.  "Have  you  ever  seen  this 
kind  of  a  wedding-ring?  No?  Give  me  a  pin." 
He  inserted  the  pin  into  a  minute  hole  on  the  in- 
side, and  the  ring  fell  into  two  circles,  so  inter- 
locked that  they  could  not  be  separated.  She  gave 
a  little  cry  and  examined  them  closely.  One  was 
inscribed  "Philip,"  one  "Mary." 

"There  we  are,  you  see,"  he  said;  "we  can't 
get  apart;  yet  we  fit  together  again  so  that  you 
can't  even  see  the  crack."  He  pressed  the  two 
circlets  together,  and  to  all  appearances  it  was  a 
conventional  wedding-ring  once  more. 

"Oh,  Phil,  it  is  charming!" 

"I  thought  you'd  like  it    It  is  called  'Val- 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      201 

liance,'  I  believe.  When  will  you  put  it  on 
'for  keeps,'  dearest!" 

"We'll  talk  it  over  when  Jessie  comes  in;  where 
is  Jessie,  by  the  way?" 

Just  then  the  telephone  bell  rang  in  the  living- 
room  where  they  were  sitting.  Mary  answered  it. 

' 'Hello!"  she  heard,  in  a  familiar  voice. 
"Hello,  is  that  Mr.  Carmichael?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  wondering. 

"  Oh,  it 's  Mary !"  said  the  voice.  ' '  Well,  Mary 
dear,  this  is  Jess.  Please,  have  I  given  you  two 
time  enough  for  the  present?  I'm  down  in  the 
kitchen,  and  I  really  can't  stand  Ah  Sin  much 
longer.  I  mean,  of  course,  that  he  can't  stand 
me!" 

"Oh,  Jess,  you  goose,  come  at  once!"  said 
Mary,  laughing. 

She  came,  of  course,  a  moment  later,  and  gave 
Philip  a  cordial  and  merry  welcome,  scolded  him 
for  not  bringing  Ben,  and  demanded  to  know  all 
their  plans  at  once. 

"I  am  sorry  old  Ben  couldn't  come,"  said 
Philip  sincerely.  "He  and  I  have  been  friends 
so  long — and  Mary  and  he,  too.  It  seems  odd 
that  she  and  I  shouldn't  have  met  years  ago  with 
such  connecting  links  as  Ben  and  you,  Mrs. 
Dwight." 

"You  mean,"  asked  Jessie,  "that  if  you  had 
met — you  and  Mary — years  ago,  you  would  have 
fallen  in  love  just  the  same?" 


202       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  returned.  "Only  if  it 
had  been  then,  it  would  have  been  another  story 
for  us  both." 

'  *  Ah,  well,  * '  said  Mary  quickly,  wishing  to  chase 
away  the  shadow  from  his  face,  "this  story  is 
good  enough.  I  'm  content,  Phil. ' ' 

Somehow,  whenever  the  question  of  the  definite 
date  of  their  marriage  came  up,  it  always  got 
shelved.  They  talked  all  day  about  it,  and  when 
Mr.  Dwight  came  home  in  the  evening,  and  added 
his  cordial  welcome  to  his  wife's,  they  still  had 
fixed  no  definite  time. 

"Ben  would  have  made  a  splendid  best  man," 
said  his  sister,  with  a  sigh. 

Philip's  face  wore  a  look  of  consternation. 
"Oh,  good  Lord!  Mary,  we  don't  have  to  have  a 
best  man,  do  we?  I  had  hoped  it  might  be  the 
simplest  thing  that  would  be  legal." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  promise  to  love,  honor, 
and  obey,  Mary?"  asked  Mrs.  Dwight. 

"Of  course,"  she  answered. 

*  *  Obey ! ' '  said  Mr.  Dwight,  with  a  chuckle.  ' '  I  'd 
like  to  see  any  woman  obey  nowadays.  Why, 
they  won't  even  promise  to  do  it!" 

"I  think  it  is  very  stupid  to  make  such  a  fuss 
about  it,"  said  Mary,  with  her  gentle  seriousness. 
"It's  much  harder  to  love  and  honor;  yet  no  one 
objects  to  promising  that.  And  if  you  can  love 
and  honor,  it's  easy  to  obey." 

"Hear — hear!"  said  Mr.  Dwight.  "Take  note 
of  that,  old  lady,"  he  turned  to  his  wife,  "for  I 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      203 

wish  to  state  I  do  most  of  the  obeying  that  is  done 
in  this  house!" 

"Presby-tee-rian  platitudes,  George,  really! 
Well,  let  him  rave!"  his  wife  answered  re- 
signedly. 

Philip  began  to  tell  them  of  his  house  at  Santa 
Rita.  "It's  the  simplest  sort  of  little  place,  but 
rather  charming  in  its  way:  made  of  adobe  and 
timber,  and  the  beams  are  exposed  on  the  inside. 
It's  rough,  of  course,  but  they  give  the  place  a 
homey  look.  And  there 's  a  fireplace  in  the  living- 
room  of  field-stone.  I  want  you  to  come  over  to 
San  Francisco  to-morrow,  Mary,  and  choose  a 
rug  and  some  other  things  for  it.  Why  shouldn't 
we  take  a  motor  and  make  a  day  of  it?  Mrs. 
Dwight  won't  mind  sparing  us,  and  we  can  com- 
plete all  our  arrangements." 

"Capital  idea,"  said  Jessie.  "You'll  have  a 
heavenly  time,  planning  it  all." 

Philip  had  left  his  bag  at  a  near-by  hotel,  and 
had  decided  to  stay  there,  as  the  Dwights'  house 
was  more  limited  than  their  hospitality.  When 
he  arose  to  go,  his  kind  hostess,  to  make  an  op- 
portunity for  the  lovers  to  be  alone  a  mo- 
ment, said: 

"Will  you  light  Mary's  candle  for  her,  Philip? 
You'll  find  it  on  the  hall  table." 

His  eyes  thanked  her,  and  they  passed  out  into 
the  hall  after  saying  good  night.  They  talked 
happily  while  he  was  putting  on  his  coat,  and  then 
he  lit  her  candle  and  handed  it  to  her,  as  she 


204      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

stood  leaning  against  the  bannister,  smiling  at 
him.  The  light  was  beautiful  on  her  face  and 
hair,  and  she  looked  very  young  in  her  soft  white 
crepe  dress.  As  they  drew  together,  his  kiss  was 
like  a  husband's,  a  deep  stillness  of  surety  in  it, 
unlike  any  he  had  given  her  before. 

"My  Mary,"  he  said.  "Good  night.  God  love 
you — as  I  do." 

"And  you,  Beloved." 

And  then  the  outside  door  closed,  and  he  was 
gone.  She  turned  and  went  slowly  up-stairs,  like 
one  in  a  dream. 

Mary  sat  long  by  the  window  thinking,  after 
her  light  was  out.  She  was  deeply  and  intensely 
happy,  yet,  curiously,  a  sense  of  sadness,  very  pro- 
found, was  also  settling  over  her  spirit.  In  this 
particular  hour  of  her  life,  she  wanted  her  par- 
ents— her  young  parents,  who  had  loved  each  other 
and  had  died,  when  they  were  younger  than 
she  was  now.  She  thought  of  them  with  longing, 
with  a  sense  of  irreparable  loss.  She  had  no  other 
family  ties.  Philip,  too,  was  almost  as  lonely  as 
she,  though  he  had  an  elder  brother  somewhere 
in  Ireland.  No  wonder  they  clung  together,  he 
and  she!  But  for  each  other,  they  would  have 
been  two  lonely  souls.  They  must  be  all  in  all 
to  one  another. 

She  looked  out  into  the  darkness.  The  sky  was 
murky,  for  there  had  been  recent  rains.  Not  a 
single  star  broke  through  the  gloom,  and  the  gar- 
den lay  hushed  and  dark.  It  came  to  her  sud- 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       205 

denly  that  this  would  be  the  last  night  in  which 
this  particular  kind  of  loneliness  would  be  hers, 
that  in  all  the  days  and  nights  of  her  life  to  come, 
Philip  would  have  an  integral  part.  Precious 
thought — warming  the  heart  like  wine !  She  sank 
on  her  knees  by  the  open  window  and  stretched 
out  her  arms,  in  exaltation  of  spirit. 

"0  great  God  of  day  and  night  and  life  and 
time — God  of  the  night  in  which  no  star  is,  hide 
not  my  love  from  the  heart  of  my  Love,  but  let 
him  know  it,  wherever  he  goes,  whenever  he  needs 
it,  whatever  he  does.  He  is  my  soul — the  better 
part  of  me,  and  mine  is  Thine,  in  great  thanks  for 
blessing  life  with  love.  Amen." 

The  next  morning  was  beautiful,  and  they 
started  out  for  their  shopping  expedition  to  San 
Francisco  like  two  children  going  on  a  picnic. 
Mrs.  Dwight  waved  them  good-by  from  the  porch. 

1  'She's  such  a  dear,"  said  Mary,  "I  shall  miss 
her." 

"Yes,"  Philip  answered,  "one  will  miss  old 
friends.  We  have  nearly  everything  else  that  is 
necessary  to  happiness,  but  the  old  friends — are 
far  away.  I  hope  I  can  make  up  to  you,  my 
Mary." 

"Dearest  boy!  Having  you,  I  don't  need  any- 
thing else,  not  even  old  friends ! ' ' 

He  smiled  with  pleasure.  There  was  that  child- 
like quality  in  him  which  could  be  easily  cheered 
or  depressed  by  a  word. 

"There  is  a  little  colony  of  English  people 


206      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

there,"  he  went  on.  " Mostly  fruit-growers,  like 
ourselves,  luckless  scamps,  some  of  them,  and 
others  are  younger  sons  of  rather  influential  folk 
at  home.  They  are  quite  possible  neighbors,  so 
MacGregor  tells  me.'  He's  the  funny  old  care- 
taker, who  was  my  uncle's  foreman  on  the  ranch. 
He's  quite  a  character." 

"Does  he  live  with  us!"  she  inquired. 

"Well,  he's  living  in  the  house  at  present,  but 
he  needn't,  if  you  don't  like.  He's  the  only  serv- 
ant there  now  and  quite  a  handy  old  chap,  both 
indoors  and  out." 

They  had  reached  the  shop  where  Jessie  had 
advised  them  to  look  for  their  rug,  and  the  next 
hour  was  spent  in  absorbed  study  of  various 
Oriental  weaves  and  patterns.  Finally  the  sales- 
man showed  them  one  of  most  beautiful  and  in- 
tricate design,  in  dim,  soft,  woodland  colors,  repre- 
senting a  tree  with  many  branches.  Mary  was 
delighted. 

"That's  the  one  I"  she  cried,  and  then,  her  more 
prudent  second  thought  prompting  her,  "that  is, 
if  it  isn't  too  expensive." 

It  proved  to  be  rather  staggering  in  price,  but 
Philip  insisted  on  buying  it.  He  wouldn't  hear 
of  any  other  and  laughed  away  her  protestations. 

"We  must  start  right,"  he  said,  "stand  on  the 
right  thing  at  the  beginning ;  and  it  is  the  one  you 
wanted." 

"See — it  is  the  tree  of  life,'*  she  whispered, 
while  the  salesman  rolled  up  the  rug,  "and  we 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      207 

shall  walk  on  it  every  day.  Oh,  Phil,  it  is  beau- 
tiful !  I  do  long  to  see  it  in  our  little  house. ' ' 

An  idea  was  growing  in  Philip's  mind — a  dar- 
ing idea  that  made  him  tingle  inwardly  with  a 
sense  of  exhilaration  and  excitement.  Their  pur- 
chase completed,  they  moved  away. 

1  'I  feel  positively  light-headed  with  joy,"  Mary 
said,  laughing  at  nothing. 

"I'm  drunk  with  it,"  he  answered.  "What 
shall  we  do  now?  Where  shall  we  go?  Let  me 
buy  you  something,  Mary,  something  intimate  and 
personal,  just  for  you.  Let  me  buy  you — oh,  what 
shall  I  buy  you ?  I  'd  like  to  give  you  the  world ! ' ' 

She  raised  her  face  to  look  at  him,  but  the  lids 
drooped  over  her  eyes  before  they  met  his. 

"My  dear,  you  will,"  she  answered. 

It  stirred  him,  and  his  excitement  mounted. 

"Let  us  have  a  really  gorgeous  day  all  to  our- 
selves," he  said.  "First,  we'll  lunch,  in  a  private 
room  somewhere,  for  I  couldn't  stand  it  in  a  pub- 
lic one,  I'm  too  insanely  happy.  Then  we'll  take 
an  automobile,  drive  about  in  the  park,  and  have 
tea  at  some  Japanese  tea-garden.  What  do  you 
say — shall  we?" 

Of  course  she  said  yes  to  it  all.  The  private 
room  was  obtained,  and  when  the  discreet  waiter 
had  withdrawn  for  a  moment,  Philip  came  to  her 
and  helped  her  divest  herself  of  coat  and  veil  and 
gloves.  She  trembled  under  his  touch  during  this 
unwrapping. 

"Hurry,"  he  whispered,  "he  may  be  back  in  a 


208      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

moment,  and  more  than  food  or  drink  I  want  your 
kisses,  Mary." 

And  he  had  them,  answering  his  own. 

"You  look  like  a  bride,"  he  said,  as  he  released 
her.  "How  came  you  to  wear  white  to-day,  my 
darling?" 

"I  often  do." 

"Is  the  coat  warm  enough  for  the  motor!" 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  a  motor  coat,"  she  laughed,  throw- 
ing the  white,  woolly  thing  on  a  chair,  and 
demurely  taking  her  place  at  the  table.  The 
waiter  found  them  thus,  sitting  in  great  decorum 
opposite  each  other,  speaking  as  formally  as 
strangers.  Lovers  are  like  ostriches  with  their 
heads  in  the  sand.  Thinking  themselves  hidden, 
they  deceive  no  one,  least  of  all,  waiters.  These, 
soft -footed  and  self-effacing,  see  most  when  no- 
ticing least.  Theirs  is  the  grand-stand  view. 
Mary's  cheeks  were  a  splendid  scarlet,  her  eyes 
"blue  pools  of  light,"  so  Philip  said  in  another 
stolen  interlude,  which  the  thoughtful  waiter  fur- 
nished them.  They  drank  foolish,  happy  toasta 
in  golden  wine,  and  enjoyed  it  all  like  children 
playing  truant. 

At  the  end,  when  the  waiter  had  gone,  Philip 
leaned  across  the  table,  laying  his  hand  on  hers  and 
said: 

"You're  really  all  ready  to  leave,  Mary?" 

"Trunks  packed,  and  two  of  them  locked,"  she 
answered. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       209 

"Then  why  should  we  wait?"  he  said  daringly. 
"Why  shouldn't  it  be  now,  to-day?" 

"Oh!" 

"Why  not?"  he  persisted,  his  touch  on  her 
hand  tightening.  "We  can  be  married  by  a  jus- 
tice of  the  peace,  and  leave  by  the  night  boat  for 
Los  Angeles.  To-morrow  morning  we'll  get  a 
motor  and  be  home,  home,  Mary,  before  night  to- 
morrow." 

"Oh,  Phil  dear,  I  couldn't — why — I  haven't  any 
things  with  me,"  she  said  helplessly. 

"We'll  get  them." 

"And  Jessie  and  George.     Oh — " 

Mary  thought  swiftly.  She  remembered  the  ex- 
pression of  reserve  on  the  faces  of  both  George 
Dwight  and  his  wife,  when  she,  a  widow  of  not 
six  months,  spoke  of  the  probability  of  her  mar- 
riage. Though  she  knew  they  sympathized  with 
her  in  a  way,  she  felt  they  were  troubled  by 
scruples.  She  suddenly  saw  that  it  might  be  bet- 
ter not  to  ask  them  to  lend  themselves  to  the  oc- 
casion at  all.  To  steal  away  and  be  married 
quietly,  like  this,  might  seem,  might  be,  in  fact, 
very  ungrateful,  but  it  would  relieve  them  of  any 
awkwardness  they  might  possibly  feel  at  having 
to  countenance  a  ceremony  with  which  they  were 
not  in  full  concordance.  But  still,  to-day — 

Philip's  eyes  never  left  hers.  His  mind 
traveled  the  road  of  her  thoughts,  instinctively 
knowing  them.  He  was  silent  until  they  reached 


210      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

this  point.  Then  he  broke  in  upon  them.  He 
crossed  to  her  side  of  the  table,  pulling  her  out 
of  her  chair  into  his  arms. 

"Sweetheart,  I  want  you,  I  can't  wait.  Come 
to  me;  let's  go  home!" 

That  did  it.  "I'll  come,"  she  said.  "I  leave 
it  all  to  you." 

He  rocked  her  in  his  arms,  speaking  in  jerks 
when  he  could  detach  his  lips  long  enough  from 
hers. 

"You'll  never  regret  it.  It's  best  to  do  it 
quickly — and  quietly.  I  want  you  to  be  all  mine, 
my  Darling,  my  Love,  my  Wife.  I  begrudge  every 
moment  taken  from  our  happiness  together.  Let 
it  begin  to-day — and  go  on  forever!" 

His  exuberant  extravagance  made  her  smile,  as 
it  never  failed  to  do.  It  always  modified  their 
emotional  moments  with  a  streak  of  fun. 

He  left  her  little  time  to  think.  Having  made 
a  few  inquiries,  he  rushed  her  away  in  a  cab,  and 
soon  they  were  standing  in  a  lawyer's  office,  ex- 
plaining their  desire  to  be  married  forthwith. 
The  necessary  forms  having  been  complied  with, 
the  lawyer  looked  over  the  top  of  his  spectacles, 
smiled  benignly  on  them,  and  said : 

"Yes,  now  I  can  marry  you,  but  we'd  better 
have  a  couple  of  witnesses.  Any  friends  you'd 
like  to  call  on?" 

"No,"  said  Philip  quickly,  as  Mary  hesitated. 
"No,  any  one  will  do — the  office-boy  or  the  lift- 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       211 

man  or  the  janitor;  it  doesn't  matter,  so  long  as  it 
is  legal." 

The  lawyer  went  out  to  find  some  one,  return- 
ing a  few  minutes  later  with  the  janitor  and  the 
scrub-woman.  They  stood  respectfully  by  the 
door,  while  Philip  and  Mary  drew  together  near 
the  desk  where  the  lawyer  stood.  He  asked  them 
both  the  grave  question:  "Do  you  take  this 
woman  to  be  your  wife — do  you  take  this  man  to 
be  your  husband?"  and  when  both  had  said 
"Yes,"  he  said  with  much  solemnity: 

"Then  I  pronounce  you,  according  to  the  laws 
of  the  State  of  California,  husband  and  wife. ' ' 

"Is  that  all!"  asked  Philip,  surprised  at  the 
simplicity  of  it. 

"That  is  all,"  said  the  lawyer,  "except  that  it 
is  customary  to  kiss  the  bride  and  to  put  on  the 
ring  at  this  point." 

Philip  obeyed  these  suggestions  gravely. 

"But  are  we  really  married?"  asked  Mary. 

"You  are,  my  dear  Madam,  tied  hard  and  fast 
by  our  laws.  And  may  no  man  or  woman  put  you 
asunder.  You  are  man  and  wife.  Allow  me  to 
congratulate  you.  If  you  will  wait  a  moment,  I 
will  make  out  the  record  of  marriage  and  give  you 
a  duplicate." 

Mary  thanked  the  witnesses,  and  Philip  re- 
warded them.  Then,  taking  the  copy  of  the  mar- 
riage certificate,  which  the  lawyer  handed  her,  they 
were  bowed  out  by  that  gentleman,  whose  day's 


212       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

earnings  had  been  substantially  increased  by 
Philip's  generosity. 

"Now,"  he  said,  as  he  put  her  in  a  cab,  "first, 
to  the  office  of  the  Steamship  Company  to  reserve 
a  cabin,  then  to  the  shops  to  get  whatever 
'things'  you  want;  then  we'll  finish  the  afternoon 
in  the  park  and  say  good-by  to  San  Francisco." 

"I  must  write  to  Jessie  and  tell  her,  and  ask 
her  to  send  on  my  trunks." 

"Telegraph  from  the  boat,"  he  suggested. 

'  *  No,  no,  I  must  write  and  explain.  I  can  make 
her  understand  better,"  she  said. 

Inside  the  cab,  he  put  his  arms  about  her,  and 
she  leaned  back  in  them,  abandoning  herself  to  his 
embrace. 

"My  wife,"  he  whispered.  "Really,  at  last, 
my  wife." 

While  they  were  shopping,  and  Mary  was  buy- 
ing some  particularly  lovely  garments  which 
Philip  was  not  encouraged  to  see,  a  ripple  of 
gayety  broke  every  now  and  then  through  their 
decorum.  They  still  had  the  feeling  of  truants, 
like  children  eluding  their  elders,  having  done 
something  secret  or  wrong. 

At  last  the  purchases  were  completed,  and  there 
still  remained  an  hour  or  so  of  golden  afternoon 
to  be  whiled  away  before  the  boat  sailed.  They 
took  a  carriage  and  were  driven  through  the  park, 
talking  and  laughing  at  each  other's  little  sayings 
in  the  fond  and  foolish  way  of  lovers,  for  whom 
the  world  has  just  been  re-made  entirely  "to  the 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       213 

heart's  desire."  After  a  while  they  got  out  of 
the  carriage,  asked  the  cabman  to  wait,  and  walked 
about  on  the  grass,  among  the  trees.  When  they 
were  hidden  from  their  driver,  who  was  the  only 
person  in  the  park  at  that  spot,  except  themselves, 
Philip  kissed  the  hand  he  held,  with  the  wedding- 
ring  upon  it,  and  said  again : 

"My  wife." 

"How  simple  it  was,"  she  said,  "we  merely 
'took'  each  other  for  husband  and  wife.  No  'for 
better,  for  worse';  no  'love,  honor  and  obeying' 
about  it;  no  big,  solemn,  beautiful  words.  We 
just  'took' — I,  you;  you,  me — for  husband  and 
wife,  and  we  were !" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "that's  what  I  liked  about 
it,  its  simplicity.  No  form  or  ceremony,  just  the 
plain  fact." 

"But  I  don't  feel  married,"  she  laughed. 

"Words  can't  marry  people,"  said  Philip. 
"Would  you  have  felt  happier,  my  dearest,  to 
have  made  all  the  old  vows,  gone  through  all  the 
old  forms  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  I  think  I  would,"  she  answered  a  little 
hesitatingly.  "You  see,  I  think  of  marriage  as  a 
sacrament,  not  just  as  a  legal  form." 

"Do  words  make  a  sacrament?"  he  asked,  with 
the  relentless  reasoning  that  characterized  him 
at  times.  "No,  it  is  what  comes  after,  May,  the 
love  that  unites  people.  That's  the  real  sacra- 
ment." 

"Yes,"      she    spoke      slowly,      thoughtfully. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"There  must  be  love,  of  course,  or  it  isn't  com- 
plete, but  yet,  love  itself  isn't  a  sacrament,  nor 
are  words,  of  course.  Yet  marriage  is.  It's  the 
union  of  two  meanings;  it's  higher  than  either. 
It's — mystic.  I  can't  explain;  do  you  see  at 
all?" 

"I  think  so."  He  was  following  her  thought, 
rather  allured  by  it.  "You  mean,  to  put  it  con- 
cretely, if  you  and  I  had  been  married,  say  with 
the  church  form,  said  by  a  priest,  that,  loving  each 
other  as  we  do,  that  would  have  been  what  you  call 
a  sacrament!" 

"Yes." 

"And  that  the  form  isn't  enough,  without  the 
love,  or  the  love  isn't  enough,  without  the  form,  to 
make  it  so?" 

"No.  It  needs  both.  The  'outward  sign'  and 
the  *  inward  grace '. ' ' 

"Well,  I  don 't  agree  with  you, ' '  he  said.  ' ' Our 
love  is  enough  to  make  a  sacrament  of  marriage. 
We'll  make  it  so.  Don't  you  feel  ours  is  a  real 
marriage?" 

"Oh,  yes!  That's  for  this  world — marriage; 
but  a  sacrament  has  to  do  with  the  world  to 
come ! ' ' 

"And  love?" 

"Love  has  to  do  with  both.  It's  for  now  and 
forever." 

"  So  it  is, ' '  he  answered.  Then  he  took  her  face 
between  his  hands.  "Your  eyes  glimmer  like  blue 
water  in  a  well,  Mary,  my  Mary!  And  I  can  see 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       215 

the  stars  in  them,  as  they  say  you  can  in  a  well 
at  midday.  Do  you  love  me  ? ' ' 

"You  know — oh,  you  know!" 

"And  your  kisses,"  he  said,  after  an  interval, 
putting  her  roughly  away  from  him,  "are  like 
wine ;  they  intoxicate  me !  We  must  go  home,  ffly 
Love,  my  Sweet." 

At  the  end  of  the  little  path  they  turned  and 
looked  back. 

"I  shall  always  love  that  spot,"  said  Mary. 

They  got  into  the  carriage  again  and  drove  back 
to  town.  As  they  topped  the  hill,  "Look  ahead 
now,"  said  Philip.  "Look!  There's  the  Golden 
Gate !  Kemember  how  you  said,  far  away  in  Eng- 
land, that  I  was  going  to  take  you  to  an  enchanted 
land — home ! ' ' 

"I  remember." 

"Well,  we're  going  there;  it's  just  beyond, 
through  the  Golden  Gate." 

Deep  blues  and  violets  hung  over  the  two  great 
headlands,  darkening  in  the  shadows  of  late 
afternoon.  The  sky  glowed  with  the  memory  of 
a  beautiful  day  past,  the  promise  of  a  beautiful 
day  to  come.  Pouring  splendor  came  from  the 
sun.  They  turned  their  faces  to  the  west,  drink- 
ing in  its  radiance,  steeping  their  souls  and 
senses  in  its  glory.  Finally  she  turned  from  it 
to  the  twilight  gray  of  his  eyes. 

"Philip— Philip,  my  king!" 

They  sent  a  rather  lengthy  letter  to  Jessie  and 


216      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

signed  it  with  both  their  names,  Philip  and  Mary 
Carmichael;  and  from  the  boat  they  telegraphed 
to  Ben,  in  New  York.  Mary  was  rather 
distressed  over  the  letter  to  Jessie. 

"I  feel,  Phil  dear,  almost  as  if  we  had  abused 
their  hospitality,  stealing  off  in  this  way." 

"Believe  me,  dear,  they'll  be  positively  re- 
lieved at  not  having  to  countenance  what  they 
couldn't  put  a  good  face  on!"  he  twinkled  in 
reply. 

She  laughed  and  agreed  it  had  been  her  thought, 
too.  "Ben  wouldn't  feel  that  way,"  she  said. 

"Ben's  great,"  answered  Philip;  "our  best 
friend." 

He  left  her  in  their  cabin,  which  was  the  best 
on  the  boat,  to  unpack  her  parcels  and  boxes  and 
make  ready  for  dinner.  She  was  humming  hap- 
pily as  she  brushed  out  her  long  fair  hair, 
with  golden  lights  in  it,  and  arranged  it  freshly. 
When  it  was  done  and  she  was  ready,  she  stood 
looking  at  herself  in  the  little  strip  of  mirror, 
it  must  be  confessed,  with  pleasure.  She  was 
very  glad  she  had,  quite  by  chance,  put  on  a  soft 
white  serge  dress  that  morning.  Everything 
about  her  had  been  white :  hat  of  felt  with  a  white 
feather,  veil,  gloves,  even  coat  and  fur.  She 
had  been  a  dainty  vision  as  they  left  Mrs. 
Dwight's  house.  But  she  hadn't  then  the  deep, 
warm  color  in  cheeks  and  lips  that  she  had  now. 
She  couldn't  help  smiling  at  the  woman  in  the 
glass,  who,  of  course  smiled  back,  looking  di- 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       217 

vinely  young  and  bride-like.    Then  she  went  up 
on  deck  to  join  her  husband. 

Her  hand  in  his  arm,  they  walked  about  the 
deck  while  the  twilight  gathered  into  darkness. 
They  had  agreed  to  stay  out  until  they  had 
passed  through  the  Gate.  As  they  approached  it, 
the  light,  fast-fading,  showed  the  first  star  in  the 
sky,  which,  from  faintness,  blazed  into  sudden 
beauty  like  a  note  in  music. 

"Make  a  wish,"  said  Philip,  smiling  down  at 
the  enraptured  face. 

About  them  was  the  sound  of  many  waters,  the 
swell  of  the  great  Pacific  carrying  them  on  its 
mighty  bosom  far  from  the  blurring  outlines  of 
the  land  they  left  behind.  They  passed  through 
the  Golden  Gate  and  out  into  the  dim  mystery  be- 
yond. The  wind  swept  by  with  a  welcoming 
"Hail — Well  met!"  as  the  boat's  nose  turned 
south. 

"No  wishes  left,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  the 
star.  "That's  the  benediction  on  them  all." 

They  were  very  late  at  dinner,  which  made  it 
the  merrier  and  happier  for  them,  as  they  were 
almost  alone.  They  sat  side  by  side,  their  backs 
to  the  salon,  facing  the  port-holes  through  which 
the  sound  of  the  rushing  waters  reached  them. 
Philip  drew  little  plans  of  the  house  on  the  table- 
cloth, with  the  dull  side  of  his  knife-blade. 

"The  living-room  is  really  very  jolly,"  he  said; 
"it  has  windows  which  open  straight  into  the 
garden  at  each  end,  a  fireplace  on  one  side,  and 


218      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

the  other  side  opens  into  the  house.  Across  a 
little  hall,  which  is  only  a  sort  of  a  vestibule,  is 
the  dining-room,  and  behind  that  the  kitchen. 
Here  are  the  bedrooms.*'  He  was  drawing  as 
he  spoke.  "Ours  has  a  jasmine  flower  climbing 
all  over  the  window;  you'll  like  that.  It's  very 
sweet.  The  garden  is  neglected  now,  for  no  one 
has  tended  it  for  some  years,  but  it  can  be  made 
very  pretty.  There's  a  hedge  of  geraniums 
higher  than  a  man  can  see  over.  I  wouldn't 
have  believed  it  if  I  hadn't  seen  it,  all  in  blossom 
—scarlet!  The  house  is  plainly  furnished;  but 
we'll  almost  live  out  of  doors." 

"I'm  longing  to  see  it.  I  know  I  shall  love  it," 
she  said. 

They  finished  dining  and  sat  out  on  deck 
warmly  tucked  up  in  their  chairs,  while  Philip 
had  his  smoke.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat  and 
tied  her  veil  over  her  hair.  Little  wisps  of  it 
blew  loose,  now  and  then,  and  he  put  them  back 
with  a  privileged  hand  which  lingered.  Once  she 
turned  her  face  into  it  and  kissed  it  in  the  palm. 
Philip  had  beautiful  hands — slender,  but  very 
strong.  The  caress  thrilled  him.  His  cigar  went 
out  unheeded.  Their  talk  fell  into  whispers,  then 
into  silence.  In  the  darkness  their  hands  found 
each  other.  Presently  she  arose,  and  he  walked 
with  her  to  the  door  of  the  salon. 

When  Mary  entered  their  cabin,  she  looked 
about  in  amazement.  It  was  transformed. 
Koses — roses  everywhere!  The  smell  of  them 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       219 

sweetened  the  room.  They  were  on  the  ledge  by 
the  window,  on  the  wash-stand,  hiding  its  ugli- 
ness, on  the  table  by  the  double  bed — everywhere, 
in  fact.  Philip  must  have  ordered  them  while 
they  were  at  dinner.  Her  heart  warmed  to  him 
for  the  compliment.  She  undressed  quickly, 
bathed,  and  braided  her  hair.  It  hung  below 
her  waist.  Then  she  turned  out  the  electric  light 
and  stood  by  the  window,  watching  the  pale 
glimmer  of  star-shine  on  the  water.  The  room 
was  faintly  lit  from  the  deck  outside.  Last  of 
all,  she  knelt  by  the  bed  and  lifted  up  her  heart, 
full  to  overflowing  with  its  thanksgiving  of  joy. 

Philip  found  her  so  when  he  came  in  softly. 
She  looked  like  a  child,  kneeling  there  in  her 
white  nightgown,  with  the  rope  of  hair  falling 
over  her  shoulder.  He  closed  the  door  softly  and 
joined  her  on  his  knees,  throwing  one  arm  lightly 
about  her.  So  for  a  few  moments  they  stayed, 
moments  that  neither  of  them  ever  forgot,  feel- 
ing this  supreme  hour  of  both  their  lives,  purged 
and  purified,  laid  like  a  burnt-offering  of  incense 
on  the  altar  of  their  love.  The  smell  of  the 
roses,  the  sound  of  rushing  waters,  the  sense  of 
each  other's  nearness,  all  things  blended  into  a 
rapture  of  peace,  which  neither  had  ever  known 
before. 


CHAPTER  III 

"Breath  o'  the  roses  through  the  scentless  palms 
That  spread  their  fans  in  blessing  overhead 

Hiding  the  great  blue  sky, — 
Heaven  is  out  of  sight, — stretch  out  your  arms, 

For  this  is  Eden  given  us  instead — 
Even    you    and   I." 

DOLF  WYLLARDE. 

THEY  were  landed  at  San  Pedro  the  next 
day  and  proceeded  from  there  to  Los 
Angeles,  where  Philip  hired  an  automo- 
bile to  take  them  to  their  destination.  The  day 
was  one  of  those  rare  ones  which  seemed  to  have 
slipped  through  from  heaven,  and  the  air  ex- 
hilarated like  wine.  They  rode  for  miles  over 
the  plains,  with  prosperous  ranches  of  all  kinds 
spreading  away  on  either  side,  with  now  an  old 
mission  of  the  early  Spanish  Fathers,  and  now  a 
new  and  up-to-date  hotel  to  claim  their  attention. 
They  stopped  for  lunch  at  one  of  these  and  saw 
the  great  Pacific  again  in  all  its  glory,  with  three 
lines  of  white  breakers  foaming  on  its  sandy 
beach.  Mary  was  enchanted  with  whatever  her 
eyes  fell  upon:  the  great,  soft,  feathery  pepper- 
trees  with  their  red  berries,  the  blue-green  of 
eucalyptus,  the  wide,  brown  plains,  the  mountains 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       221 

topped  with  snow,  and  the  hundreds  of  flower- 
ing gardens  and  groves. 

''Don't  let  us  linger!"  she  said,  "beautiful  as 
it  is.  I  want  to  see  our  share  of  it  all.  I  want 
to  get  home." 

Philip  laughed  boyishly  in  anticipation,  and 
they  were  rushed  away  again  in  the  motor  as 
soon  as  their  early  lunch  was  finished.  In  a  few 
hours  they  were  there.  The  houses,  which  had 
been  separated  by  long  distances  from  each  other, 
with  hundreds  of  acres  of  well-sown  land  between, 
now  occurred  at  shorter  and  shorter  intervals, 
and  soon  before  them,  in  the  plain,  they  saw  the 
little  town  of  Santa  Rita.  It  nestled  under  the 
foot-hills,  within  the  arms  of  the  white-capped 
mountain,  as  it  were,  and  its  orange  groves, 
spread  out  in  orderly  array,  sent  a  pleasant  per- 
fume of  greeting  to  the  home-coming  bride  while 
she  was  still  a  long  way  off. 

"Behold  the  metropolis!"  said  Philip,  smiling 
down  into  her  eager  face.  , 

A  church  spire,  one  large,  imposing  building 
which  might  be  a  bank,  or  a  public  library,  or  a 
town  hall,  and  which  turned  out  to  be  all  three  in 
one,  a  red  brick  schoolhouse  and  many  scattered 
homes  among  fields  of  alfalfa,  by-roads  bordered 
with-  mimosa,  palm,  and  eucalyptus  trees, — all 
these  they  saw  hurriedly  as  the  car  bore  them 
swiftly  to  their  destination  on  the  other  side  of  the 
town.  Finally,  at  a  little  distance  from  it,  they 
drew  up,  under  Philip's  direction,  before  a  gate 


222      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

in  a  hedge  of  geraniums.  He  paid  and  dismissed 
the  chauffeur,  and  the  car  sped  away  down  the 
country  road.  Then  he  opened  the  little  gate 
in  the  high  hedge  of  scarlet  geraniums  and 
darted  within,  like  a  boy  at  play,  leaving  her  out- 
side. 

"Toll,  before  the  gate  is  opened,  my  faire 
ladye!"  he  said,  leaning  toward  her.  She  lifted 
her  face  to  him,  and  they  kissed  over  the  gate, 
which  a  second  later  he  swung  wide. 

"Welcome  to  your  Castle  in  Spain,  my  dear 
Chatelaine!  Behold,  it  is  called  'El  Tejado 
Querido,'  which  is  'The  Beloved  Roof !'  " 

"Oh,  Philip— how  beautiful!" 

Two  tall  cedar  trees  guarded  the  gate  and  threw 
a  pleasant  shade.  Past  these,  the  garden 
spread,  tangled  and  confused  and  overgrown  with 
the  neglect  of  two  years,  which  in  California  is 
equal  to  ten  in  colder  climates.  Roses  were 
everywhere,  all  sorts  and  kinds  of  roses,  border- 
ing the  walk,  in  bushes,  covering  the  house  in 
vines,  climbing  even  to  the  roof.  It  stood,  the 
little  house,  in  the  very  middle  of  the  garden, 
with  walks  branching  away  from  it  in  all  direc- 
tions. A  splendid  purple  passion-flower  covered 
the  porch,  and  Mary  noted  where  the  jasmine 
sprung  to  the  bedroom  window.  They  passed 
under  the  low  lintel  of  the  door,  into  the  little 
hall  and  on  into  the  living-room.  Then  Philip 
took  his  wife  in  his  arms. 

"Home,  dearest." 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      223 

"Home,  at  last.  Home!  Phil,  what  a  beauti- 
ful, round,  sweet  word  it  is!" 

His  boyish  laugh  rippled  out  again.  '  *  It 's  only 
these  little  four  walls." 

"Oh,  no,  it's  these  great  four  arms,  binding  us 
in  together." 

"Want  to  explore?"  he  asked,  after  an  in- 
terval. 

"Oh,  yes,  at  once!    Take  me  all  over  it." 

"All  over  this  immense  castle!  What -an  or- 
der, my  chatelaine!  Why,  there  are  as  many  as 
seven  rooms — one  for  every  day  in  the  week!" 

Happy  as  children  with  a  new  toy,  they  ex- 
amined it  thoroughly.  Three  rooms  down-stairs 
and  a  hall  and  pantry,  four  bedrooms  up-stairs. 
"And  a  bath,"  said  Philip,  in  a  tone  of  awe. 
"One  for  the  servant — he'll  probably  be  a  China- 
man, Mary — one  for  a  dressing-room,  one  for  a 
den,  and  one  for  us.  When  Ben  comes,  we'll 
have  to  put  him  in  the  den,  or  the  attic!  And  if 
any  one  else  comes — why,  we'll  have  to  build  an 
addition." 

"I  don't  suppose  we'll  have  much  company," 
said  Mary. 

"I  didn't  mean  company,"  he  answered. 

"Oh!" 

She  flushed  and  wondered,  and  her  heart  grew 
still  with  the  mighty  thought  of  what  women  are 
dowered  with.  And  in  that  instant,  born  of  his 
words,  a  new  desire  took  root  in  her  to  give  him 
more  than  she  ever  had  given  yet — something 


224       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

that  she  alone  of  all  the  world  could  give  to  him — 
more,  even,  than  the  gift  of  herself. 

Hand  in  hand  they  stood  in  the  kitchen  door- 
way, looking  down  the  little  rise  on  which  the 
house  stood,  to  the  orange  grove  below.  A  soli- 
tary figure  was  approaching  from  one  of  the  out- 
houses. 

"That's  MacGregor,"  said  Philip,  "our  one 
servant  as  yet.  But  he's  a  wonder!  He'll  cook 
us  dinner,  and  give  us  gossip  and  pearls  of  wis- 
dom about  irrigation  and  religion  and  harvesting, 
and  the  way  to  make  money  by  side  issues,  on  a 
ranch.  We'll  soon  have  the  place  going  full 
tilt." 

The  old  man  approaching  slowly  had  both 
hands  full,  they  noticed.  He  was  duly  greeted 
and  presented  to  Mary,  whose  natural  gracious- 
ness  won  her  instant  favor  always. 

"I'm  fair  glad  to  meet  ye,  lady,"  said  Mac- 
Gregor. "An'  more  than  glad  that  ye've  elected 
to  come  out  heere  to  live.  I've  made  bold  to 
bring  you  a  bit  of  an  offering.  It  sairs  me  keen 
it  is  nae  white  heather;  but  for  the  bride,  I  be- 
lieve, they're  the  recht  flowers." 

With  a  smile  that  seemed  to  crack  his  dry  old 
face  in  a  hundred  places,  he  presented  Mary  with 
a  bouquet  of  orange  blossoms.  She  thanked  him 
prettily  and  tucked  some  of  it  in  her  belt.  Then 
he  turned  to  Philip. 

"For  you,  sir,  I've  something  mair  substantial. 
You  can  wear  it  inside,  not  outside  of  ye!"  and 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       225 

drawing  his  left  hand  from  behind  his  back,  he 
revealed  a  fresh-killed  chicken. 

"Will  ye  hae  it  for  supper,  sir?" 

" Thankfully,"  answered  Philip,  smiling,  "if 
you'll  cook  it,  MacGregor." 

"Oh,  I  would  na  presoome  in  Mrs.  Car- 
michael's  kitchen!" 

"Oh,  please  do,  MacGregor,"  said  Mary. 
"You  see  I  don't  know  much  about  it  yet.  I  rely 
on  you  to  teach  me. ' ' 

She  and  Philip,  leaving  him  quite  alone  at  his 
task,  spent  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  walking  over 
the  place,  discussing  improvements  and  additions. 
Philip  explained  the  problem  of  irrigation  to  her, 
and  she  listened  with  real  interest  to  details 
about  the  digging  of  wells  and  the  probable  cost 
of  extra  facilities. 

"The  only  thing  is,"  he  said,  "it  always  seems 
to  require  money  to  make  money;  and  we 
haven't  much  capital  to  start  with.  To  put  this 
place  on  a  really  paying  basis  would  need  the 
expenditure  of  several  thousand  dollars;  and  we 
simply  haven't  got  it.  Why,  it  is  more  than  our 
income  for  as  many  years." 

"Philip!  Really,  is  it  only  about  a  thousand 
a  year?" 

"That's  all.    Does  it  frighten  you?" 

"No.  But  oh,  Phil !  We  shouldn 't  have  bought 
the  rug!  Why,  that  was  a  year's  income!" 

He  laughed.  "I  see  you  are  going  to  be 
Martha  as  well  as  Mary,"  he  said.  "A  year's 


226      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

income  is  very  little  to  give  for  a  thing  that  one 
is  going  to  like  all  one's  life.  Those  are  the  real 
household  gods — the  worth-while  things  that  you 
make  sacrifices  for." 

"Yes,  but  Phil  darling,  I  haven't  made  any 
sacrifice  for  it.  And  I  wish  to  contribute  my 
share." 

He  smiled  down  at  her  without  a  word,  but  his 
look  seemed  to  say:  "Haven't  you?" 

"Let  us  think  how  we  can  economize,  so  as  to 
put  all  our  income  into  the  improvements,"  she 
continued.  "What  would  Ben  call  it?"  She 
thought  for  a  moment.  "Oh,  yes!  Turning  the 
profits  back  into  the  business;  that's  what  we 
must  do!"  She  nodded,  proud  of  her  percep- 
tion. 

"But  there  aren't  any  profits  yet,"  said 
Philip. 

"Well,  then  our  income.  We  must  use  our  in- 
come to  make  the  improvements." 

"And  what  should  we  live  on,  meanwhile?"  he 
asked. 

"Why,  on  tilings  out  of  the  garden,  and 
chickens  and  pigs  and  things." 

He  laughed  outright.  "But  what  should  we 
feed  them  with?" 

She  looked  a  little  crestfallen.  "Oh,  yes,  of 
course  they  have  to  be  fed,  don't  they." 

"Of  course  they  do,"  he  answered,  "and  so  do 
servants.  And  in  harvesting  time  that  will  be 
quite  an  item.  No,  dear,  we  must  make  haste 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      227 

slowly.  We  shall  need  our  income,  every  bit  of  it, 
to  live  on  this  first  year  while  we  are  getting  the 
place  in  order,  and  then  next  year,  when  the  crop 
is  salable,  we  can  put  those  profits  back  into  the 
business  for  the  improvements.  Oh,"  he  ex- 
claimed, after  a  look  at  her  thoughtful,  attentive 
face,  "I  often  think,  Mary,  it  is  no  kind  of  life 
to  have  brought  you  to !  You  are  so  far  above  it ! 
I  ought  to  have  waited  until  I  had  something  bet- 
ter to  offer  you. ' ' 

"And  wasted  these  golden  years!  Pure  gold, 
that's  what  they  are,  my  Philip.  We  are  going 
to  fill  them  up,  brim-full,  with  the  very  best  we 
have  of  love  and  work.  Wait!  Why,  Phil,  I 
wouldn't  be  cheated  out  of  one  day  of  it!  One 
day  with  you,  sharing  whatever  conies  in  it,  is 
better  than  a  thousand  waiting  for  you,  what- 
ever wealth  you  brought  me  at  the  end." 

* '  You  dear  of  mine !    You  very  dear. ' ' 

They  walked  on  under  their  blossoming  trees, 
hand  in  hand.  The  perfume  of  the  orange 
flowers  was  almost  like  a  visible  presence  to 
greet  the  bride.  It  filled  her  with  long  thoughts 
that  led  back  to  that  garden  made  when  the 
earth  was  young,  and  a  man  and  a  woman  just 
created  upon  it.  Now  that  it  was  old,  the 
miracle  was  still  young,  of  a  man  and  a  woman 
building,  ever  building — in  their  garden. 

1 '  Ever  a  man  and  a  woman, ' '  she  said  softly,  out 
of  her  thoughts,  "and  ever  a  garden  to  build 
in!" 


228       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

The  short  California  twilight  was  closing  in  as 
they  turned  back  to  the  house,  where,  through  the 
lighted  windows,  they  could  see  MacGregor  at  his 
homely  tasks.  Just  at  the  end  of  the  grove  Mary 
turned  to  her  husband. 

"Love  of  my  heart,"  she  said,  "do  you 
realize  it  is  just  two  years  since  we  met  and  loved 
each  other  at  once,  'out  of  the  blue,'  as  you  sayT 
What  a  difficult  way  we  have  walked,  in  these 
two  little  years,  to  this  wonder-place  that  is  our 
happiness!  If  we  could  only  have  foreseen  it, 
we  wouldn't  have  cared  for  a  stone  upon  the 
path!" 

"Nor  have  appreciated  the  garden  when  we 
found  it,"  Philip  answered. 

She  remained  upon  the  porch  a  moment  after 
he  had  gone  inside.  She  stood  there  in  the  twi- 
light, turning  her  wedding-ring  around  upon  her 
finger. 

"Round  and  round  and  round!  No  beginning 
— no  ending — forever — and  ever — a  ring — a  cir- 
cle— eternity!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

"I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candle-light." 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

SO  Philip  Carmichael,  before  he  was  thirty- 
five,  found  his  whole  life  plan  altered. 
All  his  adult  years  had  been  spent  in  the 
training  of  his  fine  talents  for  a  statesman's  serv- 
ice, and  that  training  was  of  no  use  to  him  now, 
in  this  new  environment.  He  had  to  start  all 
over  again,  accumulate  wisdom  and  experience 
along  a  totally  different  line,  in  which  his  previ- 
ous training  was  more  of  a  handicap  than  a  help. 
And  he  had  a  double  responsibility.  A  man  may 
hazard  any  sort  of  change  in  his  purposes  while 
he  is  alone,  but  with  the  welfare  of  another 
bound  up  in  his  own,  he  must  hesitate. 

However,  he  had  not  hesitated.  He  had  ac- 
cepted the  challenge  of  fate,  and  having  done  so, 
meant  to  take  all  the  consequences.  He  had  been 
called  an  ambitious  man,  he  had  been  so.  He  had 
built  up  his  ambition  proudly,  year  by  year,  step 
by  step,  hoping,  as  so  many  men  of  his  class  do, 
to  incorporate  love  into  it,  in  time,  the  kind  of 
love  that  is  either  a  spur  or  a  stepping-stone,  but 
never  a  disturbance.  And  yet  when  it  had  come, 
this  love,  it  had  demanded  of  him  a  complete 


230      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

sacrifice  of  every  purpose  of  his  life.  It 
had  demanded  of  him  a  complete  abandon- 
ment of  the  work  for  which  he  had  been 
trained,  of  the  career  for  which  he  was  peculiarly 
fitted.  It  had  demanded  of  him  nothing  less  than 
a  new  beginning  at  a  new  craft.  And  he  had  not 
hesitated.  It  augured  well  for  his  ultimate  suc- 
cess and  happiness  as  a  man,  as  even  his  enemies 
admitted,  that  he  should  have  met  the  situation 
and  made  whatever  personal  sacrifice  there  was 
so  promptly  and  quietly,  putting  straight  out  of 
his  life,  by  a  strong  and  definite  act  of  the  will, 
any  possibility  of  promotion  in  his  old  career. 
The  only  question  was  whether  the  demand  could 
justify  itself,  the  sacrifice  seem  worth  while,  in 
the  years  to  come. 

That  was  how  the  old  Duke  and  Duchess  were 
speaking  of  it,  over  in  England;  he  realizing  it 
from  the  man's  point  of  view  more  completely 
than  she  could  possibly  do,  prejudiced  as  her  mind 
was  toward  Carmichael. 

"Oh,  I  daresay  they'll  make  a  living!"  she  said 
lugubriously.  "But  will  they  live?  What  sort 
of  life  can  it  be  for  them,  mental  people  as  they 
are,  both  of  them,  to  farm?  I  try  and  try  to 
imagine  them  at  it,  but  I  fail.  Fancy  Mary  peel- 
ing potatoes  instead  of  playing  sonatas!  And 
him  planting  and  plowing  in  his  shirt-sleeves 
very  likely,  instead  of  being  one  of  the  best 
turned-out  men  in  London!  I  simply  can't  imag- 
ine it!" 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      231 

"Why,  Aunt,  I  think  you've  imagined  it  beauti- 
fully!" laughed  Lady  Kitty.  "Quite  a  picture!" 

"But  where  does  it  lead!"  persisted  the  Duch- 
ess. 

"Pictures  don't  lead  anywhere.  They  just 
live,"  returned  Lady  Kitty. 

But  the  two  in  California  were  utterly  ab- 
sorbed in  the  game  they  were  playing  with  sky 
and  soil  and  sun.  Such  mornings,  crisp  and 
sharp  sometimes  at  that  period  of  the  year,  for 
Philip,  starting  out  on  some  of  his  many  tasks, 
in  gray  shirt  and  trousers,  as  the  Duchess  had 
imagined  him,  with  the  bluer  gray  of  his  eyes 
bright  and  clear  with  health.  Such  days  for 
Mary,  after  she  had  kissed  him  and  waved  from 
the  porch,  and  then  gone  about  her  many  house- 
hold tasks  of  sewing,  sweeping,  weeding  the 
garden  and  watering  it,  working  really  hard  with 
her  hands,  and  transforming  the  little  house 
into  a  veritable  home.  Such  merry  reunions  after 
the  few  hours'  separation,  when  they  met  again 
for  their  mid-day  meal,  each  of  them  with  a  sharp 
hunger  that  gave  a  zest  to  the  simple  food.  They 
had  a  Japanese  man  servant  of  all  work,  whose 
oriental  temperament  was  a  continual  source  of 
entertainment  to  them.  And  then  the  afternoons, 
as  busy  as  the  mornings,  while  in  various  ways 
they  reclaimed  their  little  property  from  the 
waste  it  had  been  for  the  past  two  years  or  more, 
since  Philip's  uncle  had  died. 

And    then   the   evenings!     Short,   because    of 


232       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

their  weariness  from  the  outdoor  work  which  sent 
them  early  to  bed;  short,  but  close  and  sweet  with 
companionship  that  answered  every  mood,  that 
sympathized  with  and  understood  every  purpose 
and  plan  which  either  had.  These  evenings 
might  be  passed  with  Mary  at  the  piano,  which 
Philip  had  insisted  on  buying  for  her;  and  the 
low,  full  tones  of  her  voice,  never  a  lajjge  one, 
but  always  beautifully  equalized  and  true,  made 
such  music  in  the  room  that  Philip's  book  would 
drop,  from  sheer  pleasure  of  giving  himself  up 
to  her  speJJ.  Or,  at  other  times,  she  would  sew, 
and  he  would  read  aloud  to  her.  Through  tke 
English  papers  and  periodicals  they  kept  in  touch 
somewhat  with  the  old  life,  though  it  seemed  a 
different  world.  Once  she  saw — and  was  startled 
to  see — a  look  almost  of  wistfulness  on  his  face. 
He  had  been  reading  the  speech  of  a  certain 
minister  in  the  House,  and  he  had  said  enthusias- 
tically: ''It's  great,  isn't  it!  I  tnight  have 
known  he  would  take  that  stand.  He's  my  old 
chief,  and  I  always  knew  how  he  would  view  any 
question  long  before  he  spoke  on  it.  Just  think," 
he  had  added,  as  he  folded  the  paper,  "I  knew 
him  really  intimately!  How  strange  it  seems, 
and  how  long  ago,  already!" 

It  was  then  that  Mary  had  been  surprised  at 
the  wistfulness  that  bad  settled  unconsciously 
over  his  face,  as  he  sat  thinking  of  the  great  game 
that  was  always  going  on  in  England,  the  contest 
of  nations  in  which  he  no  longer  had  any  share. 


THE  SUBSTAttfil^OF  HIS  HOUSE      233 

And  in  consequence  of  that  look  on  her  husband 's 
face,  a  quick  alarm  shot  through  the  heart  of  the 
woman.  Could  she  be  worth  it  to  him?  Could 
she  make  this  life  out  here  compensate  for  what 
he  had  given  up! 

But  that  was  not  usual.  Generally  the  even- 
ing passed  happily,  with  Philip  bending  over 
columns  of  figures,  making  estimates  and  plans, 
and  Mary  sitting  near  by,  sewing,  with  the  lamp- 
light shining  on  her  soft  hair,  and  their  frank 
affection  sweetening  every  prosaic  detail.  Or, 
too  tired  to  plan  or  sew,  they  sat  together  by  the 
fire  and  talked  of  big  and  little  things.  Some- 
times he  sat  at  her  feet  on  the  hearth-rug,  his 
knees  drawn  up  with  his  arms  around  them  like 
a  schoolboy,  and  she  would  pull  his  head  back 
into  her  lap  and  run  her  fingers  through  the  sleek, 
dark  hair.  But  often  it  was  she  who  sat  thus, 
drawing  a  low  stool  beside  the  little  sofa  where 
he  lay,  at  right  angles  to  the  fire,  and  perhaps 
reading  to  him.  It  was  generally  poetry,  for 
there  was  a  deep  feeling  for  it  in  each  of  them, 
and  they  were  in  the  heyday  of  their  youth  and 
love.  And  perhaps,  after  they  had  both  re- 
sponded to  the  immortal  .thoughts  of  the  poem, 
he  would  gently  take  the  book  from  her,  with  a 
"Read  no  more!"  and  draw  her  head  to  his 
breast.  And  both,  sitting  so,  would  look  into  the 
fire  and  dream  the  old,  great  dream  of  the  world. 

They  were  getting  in  touch  with  the  little  com- 
munity, too.  Mary  was  glad  to  find  her  church 


234      THE  SUBSTANf  ¥±£F  HIS  HOUSE 


in  the  little  town.  She  and  Philip  drove  in  to 
the  service  the  very  first  Sunday  and  met  the 
priest  at  the  door  afterward,  who,  seeing  they 
were  newcomers,  said  a  few  cordial  words  and 
promised  to  call  at  once.  Something  oddly 
familiar  in  his  face  arrested  Mary's  attention. 
It  seemed  as  if  she  had  seen  him  before,  but  she 
could  not  verify  the  impression.  But  when  he 
called  during  the  week  following,  she  found  that 
he  had  the  same  feeling  in  regard  to  her.  He 
thought  that  she  was  English,  and  she  guessed 
that  he  was.  He  was  called  Father  John,  and 
he  was  about  thirty-eight  or  thirty-nine  years  of 
age.  As  they  talked  and  spoke  of  places  in  Eng- 
land, he  suddenly  asked  her  where  she  was  con- 
firmed. She  replied,  and  he  clapped  his  hands  to- 
gether smartly. 

''That's  it!"  he  cried.  "That's  the  place!  I 
knew  I  had  met  you  before!  Your  face  was 
known  to  me,  but  I  couldn't  think  where.  My 
dear  Mrs.  Carmichael,  you  and  I  were  confirmed 
together  !  '  ' 

"Really?"  said  Mary,  rather  bewildered. 

"Don't  you  remember  a  long,  lean,  lank  young 
man,  who  was  presented  to  the  Bishop  at  the  same 
time  you  were!  Don't  you  remember  speaking 
sweetly  to  me  afterward!  I  remember  what  you 
said:  that  since  we  had  shared  a  sacrament,  \\v 
should  shake  hands  before  we  parted,  and  though 
you  didn't  know  my  name,  you  wished  me  happi- 
ness." 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      235 

"Did  I  really  say  that?"  asked  Mary,  laugh- 
ing. "How  young  it  sounds!  But  I  was  prob- 
ably trying  to  be  kind. ' ' 

"You  were,"  he  answered  genially.  "I  re- 
member I  told  you  that  I  was  a  recent  convert 
and  was  going  out  to  one  of  the  missionary  dis- 
tricts of  America  to  study  for  Holy  Orders. 
That  was — let  me  see — twelve  or  thirteen  years 
ago!  I  have  been  a  priest  for  seven  years. 
Much  may  happen  in  twelve  years,  Mrs.  Carmi- 
chael." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "one's  whole  life  may 
change  in  much  less  time  than  that." 

"Won't  you  tell  me  something  of  yourself?" 
he  asked  gently.  ' '  I  mean  when  you  feel  inclined. 
I  remember  your  godfather  was  the  Duke  of 
Northerland,  a  wonderfully  fine  man.  How  came 
you  to  be  here?  Don't  think  me  intrusive,  but 
I  shall  be  your  only  spiritual  adviser  here,  as 
there  is  no  other  church  of  ours  within  miles." 

"It  is  not  in  the  least  intrusive,"  said  Mary. 
"But  the  answer  to  your  question  is  simple.  I 
married  Mr.  Carmichael,  and  we  came  to  settle 
upon  the  only  property  we  possessed.  That  is 
how  we  are  here,  like  the  rest,  I  fancy,  to  make 
a  living." 

"And  do  you  like  it?"  asked  Father  John. 
"I  ask  because  it  seems  to  me  it  must  be  such  a 
different  life  to  what  you  were  accustomed  to 
there — at  home. ' ' 

Mary   saw   Philip   coming   along   one    of   the 


£36      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

garden  paths,  and  her  face  lighted  up.  She 
turned  to  her  guest. 

"I  should  like  any  life  where  my  husband  is. 
It  doesn't  matter  whether  it  is  here  or  there," 
she  said. 

Father  John  rose  to  meet  Philip,  and  they  all 
three  chatted  happily  over  tea  in  the  garden. 
"Quite  in  the  English  fashion,"  as  the  priest 
said. 

"Ah,  but  think  of  this  time  of  year  in  Eng- 
land!" answered  Philip.  "Rain  and  darkness, 
nrist  and  mud!" 

"Our  rains  are  due,  too,"  Father  John  an- 
swered. "You  haven't  experienced  them  yet, 
have  you?" 

"Only  a  few  days  of  them.  I  have  been  in  the 
country  only  a  short  time." 

"Really!  Well,  we  shall  soon  make  you  feel 
one  of  us.  I  count  it  an  unexpected  pleasure  to 
number  you  among  my  parishioners." 

Indeed,  his  rugged  face  looked  very  happy  as 
they  shook  hands  with  him  by  the  gate  in  the 
hedge  and  said  good-by.  He  felt  they  both  liked 
him,  and  he  returned  the  feeling  heartily.  Philip, 
watching  him  trudge  away  down  the  country  road, 
said: 

"Poor  chap!  I'll  bet  he's  been  lonesome  out 
here." 

And  Mary  felt  again  that  quick,  momentary 
sinking  of  the  heart,  wondering  if  he  spoke  out 
of  a  fellow-feeling. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      237 

A  few  days  later,  just  as  she  had  finished  hang- 
ing some  chintz  curtains,  which  she  had  made 
herself,  in  the  living-room,  she  saw  another 
visitor,  a  lady,  coming  up  the  garden  path.  It 
was  too  late  to  escape,  for  she  felt  that  she  had 
been  seen,  so,  just  as  she  was,  in  white  sewing- 
apron  over  her  blue  serge  dress,  she  waited  until 
the  Japanese  announced,  "Mrs.  Hughes"  and  then 
welcomed  her  as  charmingly  as  if  it  had  been  at  a 
reception  where  such  things  as  aprons  and  mussed 
hair  are  unknown.  Mary's  breeding  always 
showed  best  when  there  was  a  slight  strain  put 
upon  it.  She  saw  at  once  that  Mrs.  Hughes  was 
a  lady  and  said  to  the  Japanese: 

"Chia  o  molte  kite,  kudasai,  Tanaka." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Hughes,  smiling  apprecia- 
tively, "you  are  picking  up  a  little  Japanese. 
How  quick  of  you!" 

"That's  the  only  thing  I  can  say,"  laughed 
Mary,  "and  I'm  so  proud  of  it  I  say  it  on  all 
occasions.  I  asked  him  to  bring  tea;  did  you 
know?" 

"Yes,  I  guessed.  I,  too,  tried  the  language 
when  I  first  came.  We  all  do,  we  English;  we 
try  everything — for  a  while." 

"I  thought  you  were  English,"  said  Mary. 
"But  I'm  not.  I'm  an  American." 

Mrs.  Hughes  remarked  that  she  would  not  have 
believed  it,  and  Mary  asked  if  she  had  been  long 
in  the  country.  Her  visitor  had  interested  her 
from  the  first.  She  had  a  vivid  face,  with  hair 


238       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

and  eyes  of  a  dark  brown,  and  a  very  clear-cut 
profile.  There  was  a  look  of  restlessness  and  of 
something  akin  to  discontent  about  her  that  made 
its  appeal  to  Mary.  She  found  herself  wonder- 
ing if  she  were  unhappily  married,  or  was  dis- 
satisfied with  her  position  in  life,  or  what  it 
was  which  gave  that  almost  tragic  look  to  her 
mouth. 

1  'Captain  Hughes  and  I  have  been  here  about 
three  years,"  she  answered. 

"Do  tell  me  something  about  the  place  and  the 
people;  what  do  you  do  for  amusement,  for  in- 
stance ? ' ' 

Mrs.  Hughes  smiled  rather  wearily.  "I'm 
af  ra  id  there  isn  't  much,  "she  answered.  ' '  Every- 
body is  too  busy  working  for  a  living.  Still,  I 
believe  they  do  dance  sometimes  in  the  town  hall 
—a  sort  of  Saturday  evening  social  club — and 
there  is  bridge,  too,  and  they  picnic  in  the  canons, 
and  there  is  a  little  tennis  and  some  very  bad 
golf.  Of  course  there  are  not  many  young  peo- 
ple." 

Mary  noticed  that  she  invariably  said  "they" 
as  if  she  were  not  a  part  of  the  life  of  the  place, 
and  she  naturally  wondered  why. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  said  lightly,  "amusement 
doesn't  really  matter  out  here,  where  it  is  so  lovely 
just  to  live.  And  Los  Angeles  isn't  too  far  to  go 
up  for  a  little  treat  now  and  then." 

"That  is  what  we  do,"  answered  Mrs.  Hughes. 
"It  is  our  only  hope  of  not  dying  of  boredom  and 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       239 

ennui.  We  keep  in  touch  with  the  theater  there, 
see  all  the  new  plays,  and  hear  all  the  music 
there  is.  But,  heavens,  what  a  life !  You  '11  miss 
'home'  more  and  more,  Mrs.  Carmichael." 

"This  is  'home'  to  me,"  said  Mary,  smiling. 

"Oh,  yes.  One  forgets  that  you  are  not  Eng- 
lish. But  Mr.  Carmichael  is,  is  he  not!" 

"Yes— Irish." 

"I  knew  he  was  a  member  of  Parliament.  I 
fancy  we  must  have  known  many  of  the  same  peo- 
ple at  home." 

Mary  felt  inwardly  sorry  for  that.  She  had  so 
hoped  to  start  life  in  this  new  place  unfettered 
by  any  gossip  from  the  past.  She  had  not  spoken 
of  her  previous  marriage,  even  to  the  priest.  It 
was  not  that  she  needed  to  conceal  it,  but  that  she 
was  so  completely  Mary  Carmichael  that  she 
hated  any  one  to  even  think  of  herself  as  Lady 
Stanhope.  And  now  here  was  this  strange 
woman  very  likely  knowing  something  of  the 
whole  story. 

"That  was  why  I  called,"  said  Mrs.  Hughes. 
"Because  I  felt  you  would  soon  miss  your  old  life, 
Lady — er — Mrs.  Carmichael — even  if  you  do  not 
already;  and  I  wanted  you  not  to  feel  as  lonely 
as  I  have  sometimes." 

"Oh!  I'm  sorry,"  said  Mary  gently.  "Well, 
we  must  be  good  friends.  I  don't  think  I  shall 
mind  it  here,  but  then,  I'm  not  English-bred, 
though  I  was  born  there.  My  people  were  Ameri- 
cans, however,  and  I  went  to  school  here — in  New 


240       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

York,  I  mean.  That  makes  such  a  difference, 
doesn't  it?" 

They  talked  a  little  longer,  and  when  Mrs. 
Hughes  rose  to  go,  she  said: 

"It  has  been  a  pleasure  to  meet  some  one  of  my 
own  class,  and  kind,  again.  I  am  sure  we  have 
much  in  common." 

Just  what  she  meant  by  that,  Mary  did  not 
realize  at  the  moment,  but  when  speaking  of  it 
to  Philip  that  night  at  dinner,  she  said: 

"She  gives  me  the  feeling  that  there  is  some 
mystery  about  her." 

"I  met  Hughes  in  the  town,"  Philip  answered. 
"There's  some  gossip  about  them;  I  did  not 
gather  what  it  was.  He  has  a  sort  of  beaten 
look,  as  if  he  had  found  life  not  worth  the  strug- 
gle." 

"Oh!  what  a  pity,"  she  said  sympathetically. 
"It's  so  splendidly  worth  it,  don't  you  think,  my 
dear?" 

"Of  course  I  think  so,"  he  answered,  smiling 
across  the  table  in  the  way  that  set  her  heart  to 
singing.  "But  I'm  not  Hughes." 

That  was  the  mood  she  loved  to  see  him  in — 
the  good,  gay,  purposeful  mood  which  generally 
dominated  him,  to  do  him  justice.  It  was  only 
occasionally,  when  he  was  very  tired,  that  she 
noted  the  wistful  look  which  she  had  learned  to 
dread  settling  upon  his  face,  as  he  looked  back- 
ward to  the  life  behind,  instead  of  forward  to  the 
good  years  ahead.  She  under stoQd  it,  in  a 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       241 

measure,  dimly  guessing  that  a  man  must  miss 
his  life-work  when  it  was  as  big  as  Philip's  had 
been.  But  she  did  not  realize  it,  her  own  work 
for  him  so  completely  absorbing  her,  her  love  so 
wonderfully  inspiring  her,  through  all  the  hard 
places,  and  past  all  the  sordid,  prosaic  details  of 
their  economies  and  labors.  He  appreciated  all 
she  did  and  was,  and  he  loved  her  in  every  way, 
past  either  of  their  dreams  of  loving,  when  they 
had  first  drawn  together.  But  sometimes,  in 
spite  of  himself,  in  spite  of  his  real  endeavor  to 
put  the  past  out  of  his  thoughts  entirely  and 
concentrate  upon  the  immediate  work  of  the  pres- 
ent, his  unused  talents,  his  unfulfilled  mental 
energies  would  confront  him  and  contend  for  ex- 
pression. And  there  was  no  expression  for  them 
in  the  life  to  which  he  had  given  himself. 

A  few  days  after  Mrs.  Hughes'  call,  Mary  re- 
ceived another  from  Mrs.  Bourke,  wife  of  the 
physician  in  the  town.  She  was  a  voluble,  cheer- 
ful little  wojnan,  with  a  very  rosy  face  and  hair 
just  beginning  to  turn.  She  was  evidently  very 
frank  and  outspoken,  and  Mary  felt  at  home  with 
her  at  once. 

"We  always  look  for  you  in  church  every  Sun- 
day," she  chattered,  with  the  frequent  emphasis 
which  Americans  often  use,  in  lieu  of  any  other 
punctuation  to  their  speech.  "And  I  say  to  my 
husband,  the  doctor:  'There's  that  perfectly 
stunning  couple  again.'  The  first  time  I  said: 
4 1  wonder  who  they  can  be;'  then  I  heard  your 


242      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

name  from  dear  Father  John,  and  I  said:  'I 
wonder  what  they  are  doing  here. '  ' 

"And  now  you  have  come  to  find  out!"  said 
Mary,  laughing. 

"My  dear,  I  don't  mean  to  be  personal,  but  you 
are  simply  too  beautiful  for  words;  and  your 
husband — half  the  women  in  the  place  think  he  is 
fascinating!  We  are  so  glad  you  have  come 
among  us,  and  so  glad  you  are  in  our  church. 
We  want  to  make  you  feel  welcome  at  once.  Am 
I  your  first  caller!" 

"Almost,"  answered  Mary.  "Mrs.  Hughes 
called  a  few  days  ago.  By  the  way,  I  never  see 
her  in  church." 

"Mrs.  Hughes?  Well,  I  should  say  not!  Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  she  called  on  youf  Well,  I 
never  heard  of  such  nerve!" 

"Why?"  asked  Mary,  mystified. 

"My  dear!  She  isn't  really  Mrs.  Hughes  at 
all.  She's  Lady  Fitzroy,  and  she  and  Captain 
Hughes  eloped,  and  her  husband  simply  won't 
divorce  her;  and  the  poor  things  aren't  received 
even  out  here!" 

"Oh!    They  must  be  very  lonely." 

"Well,  I  suppose  they  are;  but  what  can  you  do 
with  people  like  that?  They  don't  fit  in,  do  they? 
They  ought  to  go  and  live  in  a  big  place  where 
things  don't  get  known.  Here  everybody  knows 
everything  about  one." 

"She  looks  very  unhappy,  poor  lady!" 

"I  should  think  she  would!    They  say  she  left 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       243 

a  good  husband  and  a  beautiful  home  and  a  fine 
social  position,  and  everything  of  that  sort — just 
to  go  away  with  Captain  Hughes — and  what  she 
saw  in  him,  I  can't  think!  Aren't  women  fools, 
my  dear?" 

"Are  they?"  asked  Mary,  smiling  a  little  sadly. 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean — when  they  give 
up  everything  for  nothing." 

"I  suppose  they  always  think  they  are  giving 
up  nothing  for  everything,"  said  Mary. 

"But  how  do  they  get  so  topsy-turvy?  You 
know,  I'd  help  any  woman  out  of  any  scrape; 
but  I  simply  can't  pretend  to  understand  how  she 
ever  gets  in ! " 

"I'm  sure  you  are  a  great  dear,"  said  Mary, 
laughing  in  spite  of  herself  at  the  little  lady's 
comical  earnestness. 

"But  do  you  understand  it?"  Mrs.  Bourke 
asked. 

"Well,  I  suppose  she  must  have  cared  a  great 
deal." 

"But,  my  dear,  it  doesn't  last!  Look  at  'em 
now!  Couldn't  she  have  looked  ahead  and  imag- 
ined it  would  end  like  this?  Why,  when  a 
woman  has  got  a  man  whom  she  trusts  and 
doesn't  dislike  on  the  whole,  can't  she  be  content? 
Why  bump  oneself  trying  to  fly,  when  one  might 
walk  with  dignity  and  safety?" 

"I  see,"  said  Mary,  much  amused. 

"Your  little  house  is  charming,"  Mrs.  Bourke 
continued,  changing  the  subject.  "I'm  so  glad 


244       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

you  kept  the  old  Spanish  name — El  Tejado  Que- 
rido — the  beloved  roof.  Old  Mr.  Carmichael 
was  very  fond  of  it.  Did  you  know  him!" 

"No,  he  died  before  I  had  met  my  husband." 

"Well,  he  was  an  eccentric  old  dear.  Some- 
body told  me  that  all  the  Carmichaels  were." 
She  looked  interrogatively  at  Mary,  who  laughed. 

"I  only  know  one  of  them,  and  he  isn't  in  the 
least  eccentric." 

Mrs.  Bourke  laughed  also.  "Well,  if  you  don't 
live  to  think  your  husband  eccentric  you're 
lucky,"  she  said.  "Really,  I  think  you  and  Mr. 
Carmichael  will  be  happy  in  Santa  Rita,  when  you 
know  us  a  little  better.  Every  one  out  here  works 
pretty  hard,  but  we  do  have  good  times  too.  It's 
a  social  little  place.  You  mustn't  be  surprised 
if  the  man  who  calls  for  your  grocery  order  asks 
you  how  many  dances  you'll  give  him  on  Satur- 
day, or  if — " 

"What!"  interrupted  Mary  in  astonishment. 

"Oh,  yes!  He's  very  likely  some  scapegrace 
young  Englishman  sent  out  here  with  a  hundred 
pounds  or  so,  and  told  to  straighten  up,  or  the 
younger  son  of  a  good  family  too  poor  to  find  an 
opportunity  in  England.  You'll  be  astonished 
when  you  know  the  different  elements  we  manage 
to  incorporate  into  our  mixed  and  exclusive 
society!"  She  was  twinkling  at  her  own  clever- 
ness. "Why,  only  the  other  night  at  a  restau- 
rant in  Los  Angeles,  my  husband  shook  hands 
with  the  man  who  pulled  out  my  chair  for  me! 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       245 

Unusual,  you'll  admit?  He  turned  out  to  be 
the  son  of  a  man  in  the  Life  Guards — Dr. 
Bourke  had  known  him  years  ago — got  into  some 
scrape  over  there,  I  suppose,  and  came  out  here 
to  live  it  down — or  up — whichever  appeals  to 
him  most.  It's  a  wonderful  environment  for  ex- 
tremes, either  way." 

Mary  was  laughing  heartily.  "It's  a  true 
democracy,  isn't  it!"  she  said.  She  had  taken 
a  liking  to  little  Mrs.  Bourke. 

The  months  passed  quickly  into  spring,  and 
they  were  by  that  time  on  pleasant,  friendly 
terms  with  most  of  the  little  community.  The 
house  was  transformed  under  Mary's  taste  and 
by  her  busy  hands.  Soft  chintzes,  covering  the 
shabby  chairs  in  the  living-room  and  hanging 
over  windows  and  doorways,  made  the  place 
wonderfully  dainty  and  homelike ;  and  the  beauti- 
ful rug  which  Philip  had  bought  on  their  wed- 
ding-day was  a  constant  source  of  joy.  Little 
window-boxes  made  of  the  bark  of  a  tree  and  filled 
with  bright  flowers  adorned  the  outside  sill;  and 
the  garden  beyond  became  more  and  more  at- 
tractive. MacGregor  sometimes  helped  her  there. 
"It's  not  much  short  of  Paradise,  is  it,  ma'am?" 
he  asked  one  day,  when  he  had  finished  clip- 
ping the  cypress  hedge  which  divided  the  flowers 
from  the  kitchen  garden.  "I  should  think  ye'd 
feel  ye'd  discovered  the  garden  of  Eden."  Mac- 
Gregor was  of  a  deeply  religious  turn  of  mind. 

"With  all  the  work  we  do  in  it?"  answered 


246      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Mary,  laughing.  "Good  gracious,  MacGregor, 
where's  your  scriptural  accuracy?**  She  rolled 
her  r's  mischievously  in  the  last  two  words. 

The  old  man  wagged  his  head  appreciatively. 
"Eh,  you're  recht,  ma'am,  ever.  'Twas  beyond 
the  gate  o'  the  garden  that  the  work  began.'* 

Inside  the  house,  up-stairs,  changes  had  been 
wrought  also.  Flowered  cretonne  curtains  over 
the  windows  mellowed  the  powerful  sunlight. 
Rag  carpets  covered  the  floors  and  harmonized 
delightfully  with  their  environment;  and  in  the 
room  they  called  the  "den,"  which  was  to  be 
Ben's  when  he  should  come,  they  had  put  furni- 
ture of  willow,  which  was  very  cool  and  comfort- 
able. This  room  looked  north  and  east  and  had 
a  little  balcony  with  steps  which  led  down  to  the 
garden.  Mary  found  its  shadiness  delightful,  as 
she  sat  and  sewed  on  summer  mornings,  or  re- 
plied to  the  letters  which  kept  her  in  touch  with 
far-away  dear  ones.  The  Duke  wrote  cheerily, 
thankful  at  her  happiness  and  well-being,  and  al- 
ways sent  a  friendly  message  to  Philip.  The 
Duchess  wrote  admonishingly,  telling  her  not  to 
do  too  much,  not  to  spoil  her  hands,  and  for 
heaven's  sake  to  avoid  freckles — and  never  sent 
a  message  to  Philip.  Lady  Kitty  wrote  wistfully 
that  she  was  sick  to  death  of  England,  was  think- 
ing of  emigrating,  and  would  Mary  have  her  to 
board?  Mary  smiled,  never  taking  her  seriously. 
Jessie  wrote  often.  She  and  George  had  been 
rather  relieved,  as  Philip  had  surmised  they 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       247 

would  be,  and  not  too  much  surprised,  when  he 
and  Mary  had  slipped  away  and  been  married. 
And  after  her  first  letter  of  wonder  and  scolding, 
she  had  settled  down  into  a  faithful  corre- 
spondent, like  the  good,  practical  friend  she  was. 
Ben  wrote  shortly,  at  long  intervals,  sometimes 
to  Philip,  sometimes  to  Mary.  He  had  managed 
to  find  a  spare  week  to  spend  with  them  during 
their  first  summer.  They  knew  that  they  were 
both  very  dear  to  him,  and  they  greatly  looked 
forward  to  the  day  when  he  might  be  able  to  come 
out  to  them  for  a  longer  visit. 

In  that  first  year  of  their  marriage,  close  and 
sweet  as  their  companionship  was,  they  but 
touched  the  rim  of  their  cup  of  life.  Very  grad- 
ually they  became  adjusted  to  their  environment, 
found  its  opportunities,  its  duties,  its  pleasures, 
its  demanding  tasks.  Each,  at  times,  realized 
something  of  sacrifice,  something  personal  which 
had  to  be  given  up  for  the  good  of  the  partner- 
ship. To  Mary  it  brought  an  added  joy,  made 
her  love  just  that  much  more  worth  while,  what- 
ever more  it  cost.  And  it  cost  much  in  many 
kinds  of  service. 

But  to  Philip,  a  greater  artist,  and  not  so  great 
a  lover,  it  brought  not  joy,  but  care.  His  re- 
sponsibility was  greater  than  hers,  his  need  for 
mental  expression  greater,  too.  He  had  not  only 
to  wrest  their  living  from  the  earth,  he  had  also 
to  direct  the  currents  of  their  lives  toward  some 
end  that  should  make  it  worth  the  living.  Sub- 


248      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

sistence  he  could  win  for  her — garden  and  or- 
chard and  plain  were  prolific  under  his  hus- 
bandry; but  a  man  of  his  caliber  could  not  long 
live  by  bread  alone.  And  of  that  other  substance 
of  the  spirit,  what  could  he  give  her!  In  their 
narrow  sphere,  among  easy,  comfortable,  low- 
aimed  people,  rich  in  content  if  not  in  energy, 
what  purpose  should  redeem  the  mere  living  of 
their  lives!  His  vigorous  mind,  used  to  the 
handling  of  larger  projects,  felt  cramped  at  its 
present  tasks.  Had  children  come  to  them,  prob- 
ably his  own  ambition  and  desires  might  have 
been  put  by  in  hope  for  them,  but  without  them 
his  dreams  were  seedless,  and  his  unfulfilled  ca- 
reer seemed  a  sterile  sacrifice  to  the  joy  of  life. 
And  this  mere  joy  of  life,  an  end  in  itself  to 
most  people,  was  to  his  restless  spirit  only  a 
means  toward  the  great  end  of  life,  which  is 
work, — work  which  enlists  all  the  faculties,  feed- 
ing not  one  but  all  the  powers  craving  expression. 
These  thoughts  seldom  came  to  him  when  he 
was  within  the  radius  of  his  wife's  warm  person- 
ality, but  often  at  night,  when  she  lay  sleeping 
beside  him,  within  reach  of  his  arm,  they  haunted 
him.  He  loved  her.  Her  tawny  hair,  a  dim  soft- 
ness against  the  pillow,  the  dark-lashed  lids  closed 
over  the  eyes  whose  beautiful  color  he  knew  by 
heart,  the  adorably  sweet  lines  of  mouth  and  chin 
and  neck,  were  precious  to  him.  Her  hands, 
harder  and  browner  than  they  had  been,  but  still 
slender  and  lovely,  were  dear  also.  He  kissed 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       249 

one  of  them  softly  in  a  kind  of  contrition,  as  if 
his  clamoring  thoughts  contained  some  subtle  dis- 
loyalty to  her.  Oh,  yes,  he  loved  her;  but  love 
did  not  fill  his  life  as  it  did  hers.  He  did  not 
acknowledge  it,  he  did  not  even  know  it,  but 
unconsciously  his  need  of  her  had  lessened. 

And  down  deep  in  the  root-reaches  of  his  spirit, 
in  that  space  where  every  soul  goes  alone,  a  new 
need  was  being  born. 


CHAPTER  V 

"Once  when  I  was  young  I  hoped  without  attaining, 
Yet  I  felt  all  Earth  was  well  within  my  scope. 
Something  we  must  lose  for  all  that  we  are  gaining — 
Now  I  have  attained  but  I  no  longer  hope." 

DOLF  WYLLARDE. 

IN  the  year  that  followed,  the  conditions  of 
their  life  became  intensified  by  the  lack  of 
money.  The  new  wells  for  necessary  irriga- 
tion proved  unexpectedly  expensive,  and  to  meet 
the  cost  they  had  been  obliged  to  borrow  from 
their  capital.  This  troubled  Philip  a  good  deal, 
but  Mary  had  agreed  to  it  heartily. 

"You  realize  what  it  means,"  he  said  to  her: 
"we  have  reduced  our  income  to  nearly  half,  and 
it  was  small  enough  before." 

"Yes,  but  we  can  put  it  back  when  the  place  is 
yielding  double  what  it  does  now.  The  place  is 
our  capital,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  but  it  means  so  many  sacrifices  for  you, 
dear  girl." 

"I  don't  mind,"  she  answered  contentedly. 
"I'm  better  than  I've  ever  been  in  my  life,  and 
I  know  enough  now  to  be  able  to  do  without  a 
servant.  Let  me,  Philip.  That  will  be  thirty- 
five  dollars  a  month  saved,  quite  an  item  when  it 
comes  to  paying  the  wages  at  harvest  time." 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      251 

At  first  he  would  not  hear  of  it.  His  pride 
rebelled  at  the  thought  of  her  working  at  menial 
tasks.  But  when  he  realized  that  they  practic- 
ally had  to  live  on  the  price  they  could  get  for 
their  oranges  that  year,  he  yielded  reluctantly. 
She  cajoled  him  into  it.  But  it  was  a  bitter  pill 
to  swallow,  and  instead  of  mitigating,  it 
nourished  his  ailment  of  pride.  She,  however,  set 
herself  to  downright  drudgery,  as  if  it  were  the 
very  poetry  of  life.  She  sang  over  all  the  dull 
tasks,  cooking  and  cleaning  and  sweeping,  even 
washing  and  ironing.  She  developed  a  wonderful 
capacity  for  keeping  the  knowledge  of  how  much 
work  she  really  did  from  Philip,  guessing  his 
sensitiveness.  He  never  spared  himself,  indoors 
or  out,  helping  her  in  every  way  he  could  think 
of.  But  he  did  not  realize  the  immense  amount 
of  actual  service  which  she  rendered  him,  nor  the 
absolute  unselfishness  of  it  all.  If  he  thought  of 
it  at  all,  he  thought  that  they  were  partners  work- 
ing together  for  a  common  interest;  but  if  she 
thought  of  it,  perhaps  when  she  was  tired,  she 
revived  with  the  remembrance:  "It  is  for  him 
— my  Beloved." 

They  had  not  made  very  much  out  of  their 
second  year's  crop.  The  freight  rates  to  the 
Eastern  markets,  which  all  the  fruit-growers  in 
their  section  of  the  country  complained  of  bit- 
terly, ate  largely  into  the  profits  from  their  sale. 
So  much  money  had  been  needed  for  repairing, 
improving,  and  irrigating,  that  they  had  not  yet 


252      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

been  able  to  invest  in  the  by-products  which  Mac- 
Gregor  assured  them  would  make  the  ranch  pay 
better.  So  that,  by  their  second  Christmas,  they 
found  themselves  in  need  of  using  the  most  rigid 
economy  to  get  through  until  the  next  harvest- 
time,  unless  they  wished  to  draw  still  further 
from  the  capital'which  provided  their  small,  sure 
income.  This  Philip  was  unwilling  to  do,  real- 
izing it  would  leave  them  with  no  reserves  in  case 
of  illness  or  accident,  and  with  no  protection  for 
Mary  in  case  of  his  death.  It  was  odd  for  him 
to  feel  such  a  sense  of  responsibility.  His  boy's 
laugh,  infectious  because  so  unrestrained,  was 
heard  less  frequently  than  it  had  been,  for  it  took 
more  to  provoke  it.  All  work  and  no  play  was 
not  proving  beneficial.  The  sense  of  exile  was 
closing  in  upon  him,  too,  and  the  futility  of  ex- 
ile. Often  he  thought  they  should  have  remained 
upon  the  scene  in  England  and  fought  it  out  there, 
living  down  the  scandal  instead  of  flying  from  it. 
They  were  fitted  by  nature  and  training,  both  of 
them,  for  that  life,  not  for  this.  He  pictured  that 
life  with  a  wife  like  Mary — her  social  tact  and 
charm,  her  beauty,  her  gifts — a  small  house  in 
Mayfair  at  first,  changing  to  a  larger  one  wJlen. 
preferment  came,  as  it  most  surely  would,  in  the 
work  for  which  he  was  fitted.  He  pictured  them 
both  in  a  more  brilliant  environment,  as  life  broad- 
ened and  opened  to  him  the  gates  of  large  op- 
portunity. He  saw  them  placed  high  in  the  Ship 
of  State,  surrounded  by  the  finest  minds  of  their 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       253 

generation  for  intimate  associates;  he  visioned 
the  years  deepening,  mellowing  to  a  prime  of 
dignity  and  honor ;  and  suddenly  beside  the  vision 
obtruded  the  reality  of  exile,  lower  aims,  inade- 
quate resources,  and  thwarted  expression  of  the 
best  purposes  of  his  life.  And  all  for  what,  he 
asked  himself  bitterly ;  for  an  undeserved  scandal 
which  he  should  have  ignored  entirely.  So  he 
came  to  think  of  it,  and  so  he  came  to  think  the 
California  move  a  great  mistake.  It  was  not 
only  for  his  own  sake  he  thought  so,  but  also,  al- 
most as  much,  for  hers.  Without  being  inten- 
tionally selfish,  his  embittered  mood  of  disap- 
pointment gradually  enveloped  him.  He  never 
once  actually  spoke  of  it,  but  he  brooded  con- 
stantly. It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  Mary  would 
see  or  feel  the  change  in  him.  He  would  not 
consciously  so  have  hurt  her. 

But  of  course  she  realized  it  and  suffered  ac- 
cordingly, divining  that  she  had  cared  more  than 
he,  surmising  that  she  had  cost  him  more  than 
she  had  been  able  to  be  worth  to  him.  It  was 
the  bitterer,  the  sadder,  because  to  her  he  had 
been  worth  every  sacrifice  which  she  had  made, 
though  she  never  thought  of  them  as  sacrifices, 
but  as  opportunities  to  prove  the  completeness  of 
her  love  for  him,  in  big  and  little  ways. 

Yet  before  their  third  Christmas  in  Santa  Rita, 
the  sense  of  disappointment  was  creeping  into 
their  relations  toward  each  other,  the  conscious- 
ness of  a  spoiled  career  cankering  the  man's  mind, 


254       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

the  feeling  of  failure  frightening  the  woman's. 
To  give  all  one  has,  and  have  that  all  not  enough 
for  the  one  beloved!  So  she  thought,  grieving 
alone  over  the  barrier  which  his  very  reticence 
had  erected  between  them. 

In  her  heart  of  hearts  she  bore  a  disappoint- 
ment deeper  than  his.  Her  womanhood  was  still 
unfulfilled  by  any  hope  of  children.  She  was 
tortured  by  the  longing  to  give  him  this  supreme 
great  gift — to  put  his  child  in  his  arms,  compound 
of  the  finest  essence  of  them  both,  and  restore 
that  oneness  of  spirit  which  had  united  them  in 
the  first  months  of  their  marriage.  This  longing 
had  never  been  realized,  but  perhaps  it  developed 
the  mother-quality  in  her,  which,  having  nothing 
else  to  lavish  itself  on,  spent  itself  as  an  added 
element  in  her  love  for  him. 

Outwardly  their  life  went  on  in  its  normal  nar- 
row grooves.  Sometimes  the  doctor  and  his  wife 
joined  them  at  informal  little  dinners  and  re- 
turned the  hospitality  in  kind.  Often  Father 
John  drove  back  with  them  after  church  on  a  Sun- 
day and  partook  of  the  mid-day  meal.  He  had 
become  very  much  interested  in  them  bbth  in  the 
two  years  since  they  had  been  under  his  spiritual 
care.  Because  of  his  slight  tie  with  the  past,  he 
and  Mary  had  soon  become  friends,  and  she  was 
very  useful  to  him  in  many  ways :  kind  and  sweet 
to  his  sick,  generous  to  his  poor,  faithful  in  all 
ways,  as  it  was  her  nature  to  be.  But  his  real 
interest  was  in  Philip,  perhaps  because  he  saw 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       255 

the  man  needed  interest  more  than  the  woman, 
his  struggle  being  fiercer,  his  face  less  turned  to 
the  Light  than  hers.  They  told  him  one  day 
about  their  marriage  in  San  Francisco,  about  the 
lawyer's  musty  room — the  mighty  question — the 
two  short  answers — ''Yes" — "Yes" — and  the 
tremendous  fact  that  stood  completed  by  that  sim- 
ple ceremony.  He  listened  gravely,  not  sharing 
their  light-hearted  acceptance  of  the  manner  in 
which  they  were  made  one.  Later,  when  Philip 
had  gone  out  on  some  business,  he  said  to  Mary: 

"Will  you  tell  me,  my  daughter,  why  you,  a 
child  of  the  Church,  elected  to  dispense  with  her 
ministrations  in  perhaps  the  most  important 
event  of  your  life?" 

"Don't  scold  me,  dear  Father  John!"  she  en- 
treated, "for  my  dear  Duke  did  that  two  years 
ago!  Yes,  I'll  tell  you.  It  was  because  the 
Church  forms  mean  so  little  to  my  husband, 
though  he  would  have  endured  them  for  my  sake 
if  I  had  insisted. ' ' 

"Well,  then,  why— f" 

"Because  I  wanted  him  to  be  quite  sincere.  I 
thought  it  would  be  better  than  to  burden  him 
with  forms  and  ceremonies  which  he  doesn't 
understand  or  believe  in.  And  then  besides,"  she 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  faced  the  acknowledg- 
ment with  her  usual  honesty,  "besides — we  got 
carried  away.  We  wanted  it  done  at  once." 

"I  see."  * 

"Do  you  think  it  so  very  wrong?" 


256       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

He  smiled  at  her  gently.  "Why  ask?  You 
know  what  I  must  think — as  a  priest  of  our  Holy 
Church." 

"But  why?"  she  persisted.    "Just  why?" 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  replied  with  great 
gentleness : 

"Human  love  is  often  so  close  to  divine,  that 
we  have  to  take  care  lest  it  supplant  the  divine. 
It  is  to  refuse  the  sanction  of  God,  to  find  it  apart 
from  Him." 

Mary  repeated  rather  stunned. 

"  'To  refuse  the  sanction  of  God!'  Father, 
did  I  do  that?" 

"Didn't  you?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Suppose  it  were  your  earthly  father,"  said 
the  priest;  "wouldn't  you  have  invited  him?" 

That  conversation  left  her  less  at  peace  with 
herself.  Perhaps  longing  to  have  it  refuted,  she 
said  to  Philip  after  dinner  that  evening: 

"Phil,  dear,  tell  me — do  you  ever  regret?" 

"Regret?"  he  said,  with  a  quick  look  almost 
like  alarm  at  being  detected.  "Regret — what?" 

"Our  marriage." 

He  hesitated  for  the  fraction  of  a  second. 

"Oh,  my  dear  girl!  What's  the  use  of  going 
into  that?  Of  course  I  don't.  Besides,  it's 
done. ' ' 

He  thought  no  more  about  it  and  went  on  with 
his  book.  But  she,  after  a  few  tensely-enduring 
minutes,  slipped  out  of  the  bright  room  into  the 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      257 

garden,  which  lay  dim  and  magical  in  the  spring 
moonlight.  She  felt  dazed,  blind  with  tears, 
strangled  with  suppressed  sobs.  His  words  said 
themselves  over  and  over:  "What's  the  use  of 
going  into  that;  it's  done!"  Was  it  for  this  that 
she  had  slighted — God? 

"It's  done."  It  was  useless  to  regret,  he 
meant ;  oh,  did  he,  could  he,  mean  that !  * '  What 's 
the  use  of  going  into  that;  it's  done!" 

She  was  sobbing  her  heart  out  at  the  foot  of 
her  own  Baroness  rose-bush.  She  found  herself 
passionately  kissing  one  of  the  blossoms,  lavish- 
ing upon  it  the  tenderness  within  her  which  had 
no  other  outlet.  It  was  at  least  something  alive 
in  the  suddenly  lonely  world. 

"I've  cost  him  too  much,"  she  whispered  to  the 
rose.  "Too  much!  And  I  haven't  been  worth  it 
to  him!"  Lower  went  her  head  to  the  very 
ground.  ' '  I  haven 't  been  worth  it ! " 

Presently  a  lane  of  light  struck  the  garden  path, 
and  Philip  stood  in  the  open  doorway. 

' '  Mary ! "  he  called, ' '  Mary,  where  are  you,  dear 
girl?" 

"Here,"  she  said  faintly. 

"Oh,  well,  I  don't  wonder  you  prefer  to  stay  out. 
What  a  ripping  night !  But  do  you  mind  coming 
in  for  a  moment  f  I  need  you. ' ' 

She  drew  a  quick  breath,  "I  need  you."  The 
every-day,  unconscious  comfort  of  it!  That  was 
the  real  thing!  She  summoned  all  her  self-com- 
mand, pulled  her  hair  about  her  face,  dabbled  her 


258       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

eyes  with  her  pocket  handkerchief,  and  made  her 
voice  quite  cheery  and  natural. 

'"All  right,  dear.     I'll  be  there." 

And  Philip,  absorbed  in  some  new  plan,  the  de- 
tails of  which  he  eagerly  explained  to  her,  actu- 
ally noticed  nothing. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"Oh,  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold  out 
Against  the  wrackful  siege  of  battering  days?" 

SHAKESPEARE. 

IN  th'e  spring  of  their  third  year,  the  terrible 
news  of  the  earthquake  at  San  Francisco 
shook  the  world.  Jessie's  letters  were  full 
of  it,  letters  so  vivid  with  description  that  they 
read  like  an  impossible  romance.  "And  yet," 
Philip  said,  "I  don't  suppose  they  anything  like 
come  up  to  the  reality."  They  talked  of  little 
else  for  weeks,  sending  what  help  they  could  spare 
from  their  own  scanty  means  toward  the  tre- 
mendous need  of  their  fellow-citizens.  "Just 
think,"  Philip  said  one  day,  with  the  newspaper 
in  his  hand,  "all  that  down-town  section — the 
building  where  we  were  married,  you  remember 
— is  destroyed!  And  all  the  records  are  gone — 
marriage  records  and  all.  And  think  of  the  lives 
lost!" 

"Oh,  it's  too  terrible!" 

"By  Jove!"  He  was  scanning  a  partial  list  of 
names  of  some  victims  of  the  fire.  "Here's  that 
chap  that  married  us,  I  do  believe.  What  was 
his  name?  Do  you  remember?" 

* '  Something  like  Jennings,  I  think. ' ' 


260      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

' '  You  Ve  got  a  copy,  haven 't  you,  dear  ?  Do  get 
it  and  see." 

She  found  it  in  one  of  the  drawers  of  her  writ- 
ing-table and  brought  it  to  him. 

"Yes,  it's  the  same,  W.  D.  Jennings,  and  the 
same  address.  Poor  chap!  It  seems  to  bring  it 
close  home  to  us,  doesn't  it?" 

' '  Oh,  yes ! ' '  she  answered,  with  pity.  ' '  Tell  me, 
what  does  it  say!" 

"That  all  in  the  building  are  supposed  to  have 
perished.  What  were  the  names  of  our  wit- 
nesses?" 

"Smith  and  Hangartner,"  she  read  from  the 
copy  of  the  certificate  in  her  hand.  "They  were 
the  scrub-woman  and  the  janitor.  I  remember  I 
wondered  at  the  time  which  was  Smith,  which  was 
Hangartner." 

"Well,  they  are  both  alike  now,"  answered 
Philip  solemnly.  "Here  are  the  names  among  the 
dead.  The  entire  building  collapsed." 

"Oh— Phil!" 

"Yes,  it  does  seem  to  bring  it  close  to  us,  doesn't 
it.  Except  that  paper  in  your  hand,  Alary,  there 
isn't  a  single  proof  of  our  marriage." 

Standing  behind  his  chair,  she  made  her  arms 
a  chain  around  his  neck.  "We  have  a  living 
proof,"  she  said;  "we  have  each  other." 

As  they  sat  together  in  the  evenings,  he  was 
often  very  silent,  glooming  over  the  past,  spec- 
ulating on  the  future;  but,  except  the  night  when 
she  had  cried  in  the  garden,  she  never  gave  way 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       261 

to  dark  moods.  Not  that  she  didn't  feel  them, 
not  that  the  spectre  of  doubt,  of  fear,  didn't  dog 
her  spirits  also ;  but  whenever  it  seemed  about  to 
overtake  her,  she  heard  again  his  "I  need  you." 
Many  times  a  day  she  heard  it.  "Are  you  busy, 
Mary?  Just  a  moment — I  need  you."  Or  when 
he  had  just  come  in,  he  would  call:  "Up-stairs 
or  down,  dear?  I  need  you — look  here!"  And 
always  she  put  the  spectre  to  flight  by  her  blithe 
answer:  "All  right,  dearest,  here  I  am!" 

Unconsciously,  Philip's  selfishness  grew,  fos- 
tered, no  doubt,  by  her  unselfishness.  His  ego, 
with  its  warring  forces,  its  thwarted  expression, 
absorbed  him.  He  was  rather  an  interesting 
figure  in  his  own  eyes,  a  man  who  had  made  a 
romantic  sacrifice  for  love,  who  had  been  sent  to 
the  wall  by  a  woman  for  whom  he  had  given  up 
the  world.  That  she,  also,  had  given  it  up  for 
him,  he  admitted ;  taking  it  for  granted,  as  he  took 
all  other  things  from  her,  little  services,  little  ten- 
dernesses, little  thoughtful  acts  which  ministered 
to  his  comfort  in  a  hundred  ways.  Gradually  he 
ceased  to  consider  them  at  all.  They  became  a 
part  of  the  marriage  relationship,  things  to  be 
expected  from  a  wife,  demanded  if  need  be,  but 
with  finished  people  like  them,  counted  on  without 
having  to  demand  them. 

And  she — not  all  at  once,  in  flashes,  as  some 
people  experience  a  revelation,  but  gradually,  very 
gradually  began  to  perceive  his  character — the 
integral  quality  of  him  which  made  him  what  he 


262       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

was,  which  placed  him  where  he  was,  which  inter- 
preted him  to  her  psychic  vision — with  that  clear- 
sighted certitude  which  comes  from  reason  alone. 
She  penetrated  his  elusive,  erratic  personality 
and  knew  it  to  be  fed  by  secret  springs  of  mascu- 
line vanity  and  conceit;  she  realized  his  disap- 
pointed ambition  and  self-absorption,  the  reverse 
side  of  the  medal  whose  face-stamp  was  ideality 
and  power.  And  because  she  saw  both  sides,  a 
new  element  came  into  her  consideration  of  him, 
a  feeling  that  old  wives  sometimes  attain  to,  of 
profound  tolerance,  watchful  solicitude.  There 
was  something  to  be  forgiven  daily  in  the  moods 
of  their  life.  It  was  forgiven  him  beforehand  by 
her,  but  the  fact  that  it  had  to  be  broke  the 
pedestal  under  the  idol.  It  mattered  not.  He 
was  her  idol  still.  She  rallied  all  her  mental  and 
spiritual  forces  to  realize  her  ideal  in  him,  to  make 
him  realize  his  own  ideal  in  himself.  She  set  her- 
self to  the  fight,  knowing  she  could  not  fail  while 
she  went  on  fighting. 

Sometimes  she  succeeded  very  well.  He  re- 
sponded to  the  spur,  infected  by  her  hope  and 
purpose.  She  encouraged  him  to  write,  and  his 
natural  gift  of  oratory  expressed  itself  through 
the  written  as  well  as  it  had  through  the  spoken 
word.  But  it  tended  nowhere,  unguided  by  any 
set  purpose,  and  there  was  no  market  for  it.  So 
it  redounded  to  his  additional  discouragement  and 
irk  at  life.  Another  talent  wasted  in  the  dull 
round  of  a  farmer !  What  was  the  use  of  it,  any- 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       263 

way!  So  he  thought.  But  Mary  set  herself  to 
her  household  tasks  with  vigor,  to  his  plans  with 
courage  and  purpose.  Her  talent  lay  in  loving. 

Things  were  in  this  state  between  them  toward 
the  end  of  their  third  summer,  when  they  had 
word  from  Ben  that  he  expected  to  "run  out  to 
see  Jess  and  the  kids,"  and  he  would  "take  them 
in"  en  route,  if  they  would  "put  him  up."  The 
cordiality  of  their  reply  must  have  pleased  him. 
Truth  to  say,  each  felt  the  need  of  an  intimate 
third  person.  Mary  knew  that  he  would,  see, 
would  feel,  whatever  there  was  to  see  and  to  feel 
in  their  relationship.  But  she  knew  also  that  she 
need  not  dread  his  seeing.  "Ben  is  so  under- 
standing," she  thought,  "he'll  see,  but  he'll  under- 
stand his  sight.  So  few  people  do  that ! ' ' 

And  Ben  did.  His  coming  helped  them  greatly. 
He  brought  a  breath  of  larger  life  in  broader 
spheres  of  action,  and  since  they  were  his  friends, 
they  shared  in  that  greater  world.  Their  shut- 
in  little  motives,  instead  of  looming  large  in  their 
own  eyes,  began  to  merge  in  the  common  lot  of  the 
workers  of  the  whole  country,  of  the  whole  world. 
Divining  in  the  minds  of  his  friends  a  sense  of 
their  lost  importance  in  their  sphere,  wise  Ben  set 
himself  to  the  task  of  reinstating  them  in  their 
own  domain.  He  made  them  feel  their  personal 
worth  to  the  community  as  if  it  were  almost  a 
responsibility. 

"Glad  you  have  taken  out  naturalization 
papers,"  he  said  to  Philip.  "The  country,  par- 


264      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

ticularly  this  West,  needs  men  like  you,  men  of 
culture  as  well  as  skill,  men  who  know  as  well  as 
do. ' '  And  Philip  would  feel  that  perhaps  it  might 
become  worth  while,  after  all. 

Ben  saw  that  some  of  the  heart  had  gone  out 
of  them  both  and  guessed  at  a  good  deal  which 
he  didn't  see.  Once  Philip  unburdened  himself, 
as  they  were  returning  through  the  orchard  where 
they  had  been  inspecting  some  work  going  on 
there. 

"Our  little  doings  must  seem  very  small  to  you, 
used  to  dealing  with  the  markets  of  the  world," 
he  said. 

'  '  Small ! ' '  said  Ben.  "  Not  a  bit  of  it.  It 's  fine 
to  get  them  at  first-hand,  before  they  reach  the 
markets  of  the  world." 

' '  Humph !  You  wouldn  't  think  so,  if  you  had  to 
live  here.  Think  of  it;  three  hundred  days  or  so 
of  sunshine — three  hundred  days  of  sameness — 
season  after  season,  year  after  year!  Three  hun- 
dred days  of  meeting  again  the  same  pleasant, 
stupid  little  people,  of  doing  again  the  same 
pleasant,  stupid  little  tasks!  How  Mary  stands 
it,  I  don 't  know !  I  often  think  it  was  a  mistake 
to  bring  her  out  here.  And  as  for  me — what  a 
waste !  If  one  is  born  to  plan,  to  talk,  to  organ- 
ize, one  is  lost  trying  to  plow  and  sow  and  reap. 
I  used  to  talk  to  men,  get  at  the  fruit  of  their 
minds !  I  can 't — ' '  he  waved  his  hand  impatiently 
in  a  wide,  circular  gesture  which  took  in  the  whole 
orchard — ' '  talk  to  orange-trees !  * ' 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       265 

"I  don't  believe  'twould  hurt  them,"  returned 
Ben,  with  his  droll  solemnity.  Then  he  added: 
"I  think  you  and  Mary  both  want  a  little  change. 
Let's  have  a  spree,  the  three  of  us.  We'll  go  up 
to  Los  Angeles  and  see  a  play  to-morrow  night, 
have  a  jolly  little  supper  after,  stay  over  night 
at  a  hotel,  and  motor  down  the  next  day.  What 
do  you  say?  You  are  to  be  my  guests." 

Philip  said  Mary  would  like  it  awfully,  and  he 
would  also.  So  it  was  arranged,  and  Ben  wired 
for,  and  obtained,  a  box  at  the  theater,  and  ac- 
commodations at  the  hotel. 

Mary  gave  him  a  pleasant  surprise  when  she 
came  down-stairs  dressed  and  ready  to  go.  He 
had  grown  accustomed  to  seeing  her  about  the 
ranch  in  blue  serge  or  brown  linen  dresses,  chang- 
ing to  the  very  simplest  sort  of  house-dress  for 
their  informal  dinners.  But  to-night  she  was  like 
her  old  self,  in  a  reconstructed,  but  rich  black 
evening-dress.  Ben  thought  it  enhanced  her 
tawny  fairness  and  made  her  look  very  lovely 
and  distinguished. 

"Seems  to  me  we're  very  gorgeous!"  he  said, 
smiling,  as  he  put  on  her  coat  for  her. 

"But  you  like  me,"  she  answered,  with  a  flash 
of  her  old  surety. 

"I  always  like  you." 

He  saw  she  was  thinner  than  of  old.  The  dress 
revealed  it.  And  there  were  other  changes.  The 
hair,  charmingly  arranged  in  its  light  brown 
abundance,  had  not  quite  that  deft,  smart  touch 


266       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

which  it  used  to  have;  the  hands  were  a  little 
rough,  the  forefinger  of  one  covered  with  needle- 
pricks,  the  wrist  of  the  other  just  healing  from 
a  burn.  And  the  eyes  were  not  quite  as  gay, 
though  quite  as  sweet,  as  blue.  Yet,  he  realized, 
she  was  still  a  woman  for  any  man  to  admire, 
a  wife  for  any  man  to  worship,  a  queen  every 
inch,  with  power  to  sway  the  minds  of  men,  if  the 
opportunity  ever  came. 

Philip,  too,  was  transformed.  He  looked  what 
he  had  started  out  to  be — a  thorough  man  of  the 
world,  well-born,  well  poised,  with  that  careless 
ease  which  is  the  hall-mark  of  his  class.  The 
ranchman  had  been  laid  aside  with  the  ranchman's 
clothes.  Mary  told  him  gaily  if  he  went  on  look- 
ing like  that,  she  should  fall  in  love  with  him  all 
over  again.  Ben  noted  the  glasses  leveled  at  their 
box  and  caught  some  of  the  comments  of  the 
audience,  with  a  pleased  pride  in  his  two  friends. 

The  play  was  "The  Doll's  House,"  and  it  was 
the  opening  night  of  the  company  in  that  town. 
It  happened  that  none  of  them  had  ever  seen  it, 
and  its  bright  opening  scenes  pleased  them 
greatly.  Norah's  romp  with  the  children  was 
prettily  done,  and  Norah  herself  an  oddly  inter- 
esting personality.  Mary,  sitting  a  little  in  front 
of  the  two  men  in  the  box,  did  not  see  the  start 
that  each  gave  when  she  came  on  the  stage. 
Ben's  glass  went  up  quickly,  as  if  to  verify  the 
sight  of  his  eyes,  and  Philip's  face  went  a  shade 
whiter  without  the  aid  of  the  glasses.  Mary  did 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       267 

not  see  these  things,  but  at  the  end  of  the  act  she 
looked  through  her  programme  for  the  name  of 
the  actress. 

* '  Sheelah  Delayne, ' '  she  read.  ' '  What  a  lovely, 
liquid  sound  it  has!  Odd  name,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Ben,  as  Philip  said  nothing. 

"She's  very  good,  don't  you  think?  And  so 
beautiful!  But  the  children  were  sweet,  espe- 
cially that  dark-haired  boy — why,  look!"  Her 
finger  was  on  the  programme.  "His  name  is  the 
same  as  ours — Carmichael!  Michael  Carmi- 
chael. ' ' 

"So  it  is,"  said  Ben,  as  Philip  was  still  silent. 

"I  wonder,"  Mary  went  on,  "if  any  of  them 
are  her  own  children?  One  feels  so  curious 
about  stage  people;  and  the  dark-haired  boy  is 
rather  like  her." 

Philip  looked  at  her  strangely,  and  Ben  caught 
his  breath  and  then  shut  his  mouth  on  it.  The 
same  thought  had  come  to  the  minds  of  both.  A 
thought  too  awful  to  be  entertained. 

After  the  next  act  Mary  said:  "I  wonder  if 
it  is  my  fancy,  or  if  the  actress — what's  her  pretty 
name? — Sheelah  Delayne — did  look  over  at  us 
several  times?  Perhaps  she  thought  there  were 
friends  in  the  box." 

An  attendant  of  the  theater  knocked  and 
entered  at  that  moment. 

"Mr.  Baldwin?"  he  inquired. 

"Here,"  said  Ben. 

"I  have  a  note  for  you,  sir." 


268      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Ben  took  the  envelope  and,  asking  indulgence, 
read  its  contents. 

1  'Well,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "you  are  not 
far  wrong,  Mary.  She  does  think  she  knows  me — 
Miss  Delayne.  She  wants  me  to  go  behind  the 
scenes  and  see  her.  Will  you  excuse  me  for  a 
moment  if  I  do?" 

"This  door  here,  sir,  leads  right  to  her  dress- 
ing-room," said  the  attendant,  "and  she's  ex- 
pecting you.  There's  a  twelve-minute  wait  be- 
tween these  acts."  Ben  followed  the  man  out, 
and  then  Philip  spoke  almost  for  the  first  time 
since  the  play  began. 

"I  seem  to  remember  a  girl  named  Sheelah 
who  was  a  friend  of  Ben's,  years  ago.  But  her 
other  name  wasn't  Delayne.  Probably  that's 
why  he  didn't  remember  her." 

On  pretext  of  needing  a  smoke,  he  left  his  wife 
alone  for  a  few  moments  and  went  outside.  He 
walked  moodily  up  and  down  in  the  foyer,  vaguely 
uneasy,  feeling  himself  approaching  some  crisis 
which  refused  to  reveal  itself.  His  memory  took 
him  back  to  ten  or  twelve  years  before,  and  to 
"a  girl  named  Sheelah"  as  she  had  been  then. 
He  saw  her  again,  in  imagination,  a  slender, 
ardent,  sweetly  passionate  girl  of  eighteen,  a 
laughing,  quick-silver  spirit,  restless,  flashing, 
beautiful,  and  under  it  a  little  girl's  crying  heart. 
Fiercely  he  tried  to  put  the  image  from  him,  but 
it  possessed  him.  Then  suddenly  it  vanished, 
and  in  its  place  came  the  face  of  the  boy  whose 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      269 

name  Mary  had  read  on  the  programme — "Mi- 
chael Carmichael."  That  awful  thought  had 
come  into  his  mind  again.  It  had  whitened  his 
face,  it  had  stopped  him  dead  in  his  walk. 
" Pshaw — a  coincidence — the  names!  Why,  the 
whole  thing  was  nearly  twelve  years  ago ! ' '  And 
then,  swiftly,  another  thought  had  him  by  the 
throat,  as  though  to  shake  certitude  into  him. 

Michael  Carmichael  was  about  eleven  years 
old!  Underneath  Philip's  horror  another  thing 
was  growing — a  strange,  dumb  wistfulness. 

Meantime,  Mary,  left  alone  in  the  box,  turned 
the  leaves  of  her  programme  idly.  She  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  room  into  which  Ben  had 
vanished.  It  connected  directly  with  the  box, 
with  only  the  door  between,  and  this  must  have 
been  thin,  for  the  murmur  of  voices  reached  her, 
though  indistinctly.  Once  a  laugh  startled  her, 
a  woman's  laugh  strained  with  suffering,  or  sus- 
pense, and  then  a  word  or  two. 

"His  what — did  you  say? —  His  wife?"  and 
then  the  laugh  again,  followed  by  some  one's: 
"Hush,  hush;  they  might  hear  you." 

Could  that  be  Ben?  Mary  marvelled  much, 
imagining  they  must  unwittingly  have  stumbled 
on  an  old  romance. 

In  a  few  minutes  Ben  came  out,  but  instead  of 
entering  the  box,  he  went  straight  past  it,  to  the 
front  of  the  house.  Mary  was  surprised,  but 
thought  he  must  have  caught  sight  of  Philip  and 
gone  to  join  him.  A  moment  later  the  door  be- 


270      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

tween  the  box  and  the  dressing-room  was  thrown 
open,  and  Sheelah  Delayne  stood  there.  She  was 
out  of  sight  of  the  audience,  but  almost  within 
arm's  length  of  Mary.  Behind  her  the  brightly- 
lit  dressing-room  showed,  its  walls  hung  with 
many-colored  dresses,  its  table  strewn  with 
make-up,  brushes,  jewelry,  and  all  the  parapher- 
nalia of  an  actress.  And  curled  upon  a  trunk  in 
the  further  corner,  the  dark-haired  boy  lay,  fast 
asleep.  The  doorway  was  a  couple  of  steps 
higher  than  the  floor  of  the  box,  so  that,  as  Mary 
half  arose  at  the  actress'  entrance,  she  looked  up 
at  her.  Sheelah  Delayne  returned  the  look  fix- 
edly, her  arms  tightly  folded  over  her  breast  as 
though  holding  down  some  strong  inward  feeling. 
She  had  extraordinarily  magnetic  eyes  under 
brows  drawn  together  tensely,  and  her  gaze,  force- 
ful, compelling,  held  Mary  silent.  For  a  full 
minute  the  women  looked  each  other  in  the  face 
without  a  word. 

Then  Sheelah  Delayne  said  slowly,  as  if  she 
could  not  realize  it:  "Mrs.  Philip  Carmichael!" 

A  second  later  she  had  gone  as  suddenly  as  she 
had  appeared,  and  Mary  sank  back  in  her  chair, 
trembling  without  knowing  why. 

The  two  men  did  not  return  to  the  box  until 
just  as  the  curtain  was  rising  on  the  last  act,  so 
there  was  no  opportunity  to  speak  of  what  had 
happened  during  their  absence  until  they  were 
all  seated  at  supper  afterward  in  the  hotel. 
Then  Mary  noticed  that  what  she  told  them  dis- 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       271 

turbed  them  both,  so  she  tactfully  dropped  the 
subject.  But  a  cloud  had  settled  over  the  little 
party  which  was  to  have  been  so  happy,  and 
though  they  all  tried  to  disregard  it,  none  of  them 
quite  succeeded.  They  separated  early,  agreeing 
to  meet  at  breakfast  at  nine. 

Philip  was  very  thoughtful  of  his  wife  that 
night,  unpacking  her  bag,  laying  out  her  slippers 
and  dressing-gown,  and  performing  several  un- 
wonted little  services  for  her.  She  thanked  him 
sweetly,  laying  her  head  against  his  shoulder  with 
content. 

"Poor  Norah!"  she  said.  "Oh,  Phil,  dearest, 
I'm  glad  I  haven't  got  'a  strange  man'  for  a 
husband ! ' ' 

In  the  night  she  awoke  struggling,  gasping  for 
breath.  He  raised  her  in  his  arms,  really 
alarmed,  and  she  clung  to  him  desperately. 
When  she  could  speak,  she  said  in  uneven 
breaths : 

"It's  that  wave — the  ninth.  It  forms  far  out 
— and  grows  bigger — and  bigger — as  it  comes  to- 
ward me.  I  saw  it  once  before,  when — when — 
just  before — Arthur — died — that  night  we  kissed 
each  other  in  the  alcove.  I'm  so  afraid  of  it; 
oh,  Philip,  I'm  so  afraid!" 

He  comforted  and  petted  her.  "It's  the  hour 
and  the  night,  dear,  that's  all;  just  a  dream  that 
you  will  have  forgotten  in  the  morning." 

She  was  shaken  by  long  shudderings.  "I'm 
afraid  to  go  to  sleep,"  she  said.  "I'm  afraid  of 


272      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

that  great  green  wave.    It's  made  up  of  so  many 
waters ! ' ' 

But  gradually,  under  the  reassurance  of  his 
presence,  she  relaxed  in  his  arms  peacefully,  and 
he  was  left  to  his  own  problem  in  the  dead  hush 
of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  VH 

"That  which  hath  been,  is  now;  and  that  which  is  to  be 
hath  already  been;  and  God  requireth  that  which  is  past." 

ECCLESIASTES. 

AT  breakfast  the  next  morning,  it  was  de- 
cided that  Ben  should  take  Mary  home  in 
the  automobile,  and  that  Philip  should 
follow  later  by  train.  He  was  interested  in  the 
purchase  of  a  new  threshing  machine,  and  wished 
to  take  advantage  of  being  in  Los  Angeles  to 
examine  it  and  to  get  several  other  things  neces- 
sary for  the  ranch.  So,  regretfully,  they  left 
him,  after  being  assured  that  they  could  not  help 
him  in  his  shopping.  To  say  truth,  he  was  glad 
to  be  alone  for  a  few  hours.  He  had  had  a  shock 
the  night  before,  which  was  like  no  other  which 
he  had  ever  experienced.  The  past,  dead  and 
buried,  as  he  had  thought,  was  suddenly  dug  up, 
and  was  become  alive  again — a  thing  to  be 
reckoned  with,  not  put  aside  and  ignored,  as  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  do  all  these  years.  What 
Mary  had  told  him  about  Sheelah  Delayne  coming 
into  the  box  and  staring  at  her  and  then  pro- 
nouncing her  name  had  disturbed  him  greatly. 
What  had  she  meant  by  it?  What  did  she  intend 
to  do?  And  then  the  child!  Evidently  her  own, 


274      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

since,  as  Mary  had  told  him,  she  had  seen  him 
asleep  in  the  dressing-room,  quite  at  home,  as  he 
naturally  would  be,  in  his  mother's  room.  But 
why  was  it  called  by  his  name?  Why  Carmi- 
chael?  Had  Sheelah  simply  chosen  it  as  a  stage 
name — Michael  Carmichael — possibly  thinking  it 
a  striking  one,  on  account  of  its  alliteration,  or 
was  there  another,  deeper  reason,  why  his  name 
should  father  the  child's!  Philip  shuddered,  but 
instinctively  something  within  him  reached  out  to 
the  boy.  If  he  had  only  known  it,  that  instinct 
was  perhaps  the  strongest  proof  of  his  relation- 
ship. It  was  every  moment  corroborating  what 
had  been  at  first  a  mere  surmise. 

Meantime,  for  Mary  and  Ben  the  day  passed 
pleasantly.  As  they  sped  homeward  in  the  motor 
which  Ben  had  hired,  they  talked,  principally  of 
Philip. 

"Do  you  think  he  is  very  unhappy!"  she  asked 
wistfully.  "I  mean  about — his  work;  of  course 
he  misses  it." 

4 'Naturally." 

"It  was  everything  to  him.  He  was  com- 
pletely wrapped  up  in  it.  It  must  be  hard  for  a 
man  to  give  up  his  work." 

Ben  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  He  was  think- 
ing that  Philip  had  been  really  wrapped  up  in 
himself  more  than  in  his  work,  and  that  when 
Mary  had  come,  he  had  been  "wrapped  up"  not 
in  her,  but  in  his  own  desire  for  her.  Not  for  the 
first  time  Ben  sensed  a  selfishness  in  his  friend 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       275 

which  he  could  not  understand.  But  the  thought 
was  disloyal;  he  refused  to  entertain  it. 

The  day  wore  on,  and  Philip  had  not  appeared. 
It  was  nearly  dinner-time,  and  they  had  begun 
to  wonder  about  him,  when  a  telegram  was 
brought  to  Ben. 

' '  Oh, ' '  Mary  said,  *  *  I  hope  it  is  no  bad  news ! ' ' 

Ben's  face  had  changed  from  astonishment  to 
consternation  as  he  stood  staring  at.  the  bit  of 
paper  in  his  hand.  She  heard  him  say  softly: 
1  'My  God!"  and  then  he  reread  it  and  looked  at 
her  strangely. 

"What  has  happened ?"  she  said  anxiously. 
"Tell  me,  what  is  it,  Ben?" 

"It's — something  I  have  to  break  to  you, 
Mary. ' ' 

"He's  not  hurt?"  she  cried. 

"No,  he's — been  arrested  for — it  must  be  a 
mistake — " 

"Arrested?"  she  echoed  in  astonishment. 
"Philip!" 

"Yes,  the  telegram  is  from  Mr.  Merrill.  He's 
your  lawyer,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  in  a  sort  of  daze. 
Something  made  her  mind  connect  with  the  in- 
cident of  the  previous  evening,  and  she  seemed 
to  see  again  Sheelah  Delayne  standing  before  her, 
saying  almost  accusingly:  "Mrs.  Philip  Carmi- 
chael!" 

She  turned  to  Ben  and  asked  quietly;  "What 
is  he  arrested  for?" 


276      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Ben  wondered  how  he  could  tell  her.  The  word 
"bigamy"  trembled  on  his  lips,  but  he  held  it 
back.  With  men,  the  short  way  was  the  merciful 
way  always,  but  women  must  be  prepared  for 
shocks,  he  reflected. 

"You  remember  the  woman  you  saw  last  night 
at  the  theater — Sheelah  Delayne!"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"  It  is  she  who  has  brought  suit  against  Philip. ' ' 

"But  what  for!"  she  persisted. 

And  then  he  told  her. 

"It  is  called  in  law — bigamy." 

Her  mind  grasped  the  situation  only  slowly. 

"But,  does  she  mean — that — that  my  husband 
— is  her  husband,  too  ! ' ' 

"I'm  afraid  that  is  her  claim,"  Ben  answered. 

Mary  looked  at  him  piteously.  "It  is  a  mis- 
take, of  course,"  she  said.  "But,  oh,  what  shall 
we  do!" 

Ben  thought  rapidly.  "Know  his  house  ad- 
dress— Merrill's  I  mean — in  Los  Angeles?  Try 
to  get  him  on  the  long  distance  'phone.  I'll  talk 
to  him  if  you  wish.  We  must  find  out  the  par- 
ticulars at  once  and  see  if  it  is  possible  to  get 
him  out  on  bail." 

"Get  him  out!"  she  cried,  her  horror  deepen- 
ing as  realization  took  concrete  hold  upon  her. 
Philip  in  prison!  Philip!  Arrested  for — what 
was  that  awful  word !  Bigamy  I  It  startled  and 
stunned  her  like  a  thunder-clap,  paralyzing  for  the 
moment  her  power  of  thought.  She  picked  up 


the  crumpled  telegram  from  the  table  where  Ben 
had  thrown  it.  It  read: 

"Carmichael  wishes  you  to  break  to  his  wife 
news  of  his  arrest  for  bigamy,  complaint  of  Shee- 
lah  Delayne.  Wish  to  see  Mrs.  Carmichael  my 
office  to-morrow  morning  ten  o'clock.  H.  Mer- 
rill." 

She  heard  Ben  in  the  hall  getting  into  tele- 
phone communication  with  Mr.  Merrill,  and  she 
began  to  walk  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  in  her 
suspense,  her  hands  clasping  and  unclasping 
themselves,  her  body  tense  with  feeling. 

Presently  Ben  rejoined  her.  He  met  her  eyes 
for  a  second,  and  immediately  turned  his  own 
away.  The  intense  question  out  of  the  blue  of 
hers  stabbed  him.  It  was  characteristic  of  his 
sincerity  that  he  did  not  try  to  evade  or  even  to 
palliate  the  truth. 

"We  can  do  nothing  to-night/'  he  said,  "and 
Merrill  tells  me  to  be  prepared  for  an  ugly  ordeal. 
To-morrow  I'll  go  with  you  to  his  office,  and  if 
there  is  any  possible  solution  to  the  problem, 
we  '11  thresh  it  out  there.  He  hopes  to  reach  some 
settlement  with — with  Sheelah  Delayne — out  of 
court.  Failing  that,  if  the  case  is  brought  to  trial, 
well,  of  course  she  has  got  to  prove  it. ' ' 

Her  eyes  searched  his  face  and  probed  to  his 
mind  behind  it,  as  she  asked: 

"But  tell  me— is  it  true?" 

Though  she  spoke  quietly,  he  noted  how  her 
hands  gripped  the  back  of  the  chair  on  which  they 


278       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

rested,  and  how  the  knuckles  of  them  stood  out 
white.  As  mercifully  as  he  could  he  said :  "I'm 
afraid,  Mary,  there  is  some  truth  in  it,  or  she 
would  not  dare  proceed.'* 

Suddenly  she  fell  to  trembling,  and  reaching 
out  blindly,  found  her  hand  supported  by  Ben's. 
He  put  her  gently  in  the  chair  and  stood  over  her, 
strong  and  protecting,  while  she  clung  to  him  in- 
stinctively, as  women  do  to  men,  in  a  crisis. 
Presently  she  said: 

"I  can't  realize  it — I  can't!  'Some  truth  in 
it!'  I  don't  believe  it.  What  does  she  mean! 
Does  she  mean  to  say  that  my  husband  is  also 
hers!  How  can  that  bet  He  has  been  mine  for 
nearly  three  years,  and  I  knew  him  for  more  than 
a  year  and  a  half  before  that.  How  dare  she  do 
this  thing!  It's  a  monstrous  calumny;  it  must 
be!  I  have  heard  there  are  women  who  do  these 
things  for — what  do  they  call  it!  Blackmail." 

"Sheelah  wouldn't  do  it  for  that,"  said  Ben 
gravely. 

She  turned  on  him  swiftly.  "Sheelah!  You 
know  her,  Ben,  well  enough  to  call  her  by  her 
Christian  name,  well  enough  to  know  what  she 
would  do!  Oh,  in  fairness  to  me,  tell  me  the 
whole  story!" 

"I  would,  Mary,  if  I  knew  it,  but  I  don't.  I'm 
just  trying  to  piece  it  together,  and  it  is  a  most 
awful  puzzle,  for  it  is  all  so  long  ago.  You  see, 
we  knew  her — " 

"You  and  Phil!" 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       279 

"Yes.  It  must  be  quite  twelve  years  ago,  even 
before  I  knew  you, — just  before,  I  think.  Phil 
was  over  here  taking  some  kind  of  an  extra  course 
at  Yale,  and  she  was  about  eighteen,  I  should  say, 
just  starting  in  her  stage  career.  The  company 
which  she  was  with  came  through  New  Haven, 
and  we  met  after  the  play.  We  all  had  supper 
together,  a  crowd  of  us.  There  was  nothing  un- 
usual about  it,  the  sort  of  thing  one  does  time  after 
time ;  only  from  the  first  they  were  rather — taken 
with  each  other—  '  he  stopped,  distressed  at  the 
necessity  of  giving  her  pain. 

''Yes,"  she  said,  "go  on.  You  needn't  be 
afraid  of  hurting  me.  Whatever  happened 
twelve  years  ago  can't  hurt  as  this  does  now.  So 
— they  fell  in  love,  but  they  were  not  married!" 

"Not  so  far  as  I  know,"  answered  Ben,  "but 
they — well — they  used  to  play  at  it." 

* '  You  mean  they  lived  together. ' ' 

Ben  was  silent,  deeply  troubled.  It  was  neces- 
sary that  she  should  know  the  facts  in  order  to 
be  prepared  to  fight  them.  He  knew  that  she 
was  face  to  face  with  a  terrible  crisis.  At  the 
same  time  the  habit  of  man's  loyalty  to  man  was 
strong  in  him. 

"I  wish,"  he  said,  out  of  his  perplexity,  "that 
Philip  were  here  to  tell  you  himself,  Mary.  I  am 
sure  he  would.  He  would  never  intentionally  de- 
ceive you.  Whatever  happened  was  before  your 
day,  and  was  the  sort  of  thing  that  happens  to 
very  many  men.  He  was  a  very  irresponsible 


280       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

boy,  and  Sheelah  was  a  gay-hearted  little  girl 
with  a  tremendous  amount  of  natural  feeling. 
Oh,"  he  broke  off,  "I  don't  suppose  such  a  woman 
as  you  could  comprehend  it;  men  and  women  are 
so  different!" 

She  looked  at  him  sadly.  "Not  so  very  dif- 
ferent," she  said.  "You  needn't  fear,  Ben,  that 
I  shall  misjudge.  You  don't  have  to  plead 
Philip's  cause  to  me.  I  understand.  I  know  life 
- — and  us — and  how  one  drifts  into  things  one 
never  meant  to  do." 

"That's  it!"  he  said  quickly.  "I  don't  think 
Phil  meant  seriously  for  a  minute,  but  she — she 
was  very  young  and  eager — and  they  played  at 
being  married.  He  used  to  introduce  her  as  his 
wife,  just  in  fun,  to  some  of  the  fellows.  We  used 
to  join  the  company  she  was  with  at  various 
towns  in  their  tour  through  New  England  and 
New  York  State,  and  when  the  season  was 
over — "  he  hesitated  a  moment,  then  continued, 
"you  are  bound  to  know,  and  perhaps  it  is  better 
you  should  know  from  me  than  from  a  court  of 
law — they  were  together  for  some  time  at  an  hotel 
in  New  York.  That's  what  I  meant  that  you 
couldn't,  with  your  ideals,  comprehend." 

Her  face  was  dropped  in  her  hand  which 
shielded  it  from  his  gaze,  but  her  voice  came  low 
and  clear. 

"I  understand,  I  tell  you — both."  Suddenly 
she  sprang  up  and  exclaimed:  "But  why  does 
she  come  now,  at  this  distance  of  time,  to  make 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       281 

this  terrible  trouble?  Is  she  still  in  love  with 
him?  If  they  were  not  married,  she  hasn't  the 
shadow  of  a  claim!  What  is  her  motive?  Is  it 
revenge?  Does  she  want  to  hurt  him — ruin 
him?" 

"She  isn't  a  little  woman,"  said  Ben  gravely. 

"Then— why?" 

There  was  a  short  silence  while  Ben  dreaded 
to  reveal  more.  Mary's  anguish  deepened. 

"What  is  her  motive?"  she  asked  again. 

She  stood  staring  at  him  a  moment,  and  then  a 
low  cry  broke  from  her.  It  was  hardly  more  than 
a  breath,  but  it  had  a  queer  whimper  in  it,  like 
some  little  animal  in  pain. 

"Oh,  not  that— not  that!" 

Ben  turned  away,  sick  at  heart  with  pity.  That 
small,  stifled  sound  had  told  more  than  words 
could  do  of  hopes  that  had  never  been  realized,  of 
dreams  foredoomed  to  failure,  of  desire  hindered 
from  its  divine  expression.  Mary  sank  upon  the 
window-seat  and  turned  her  face  away  from  him, 
out  toward  the  garden,  and  Ben  heard  her  say: 

"Her  child — her  child  and  his!" 

"I  imagine,"  he  said,  after  an  interval,  "that 
she  means  to  claim  common-law  marriage  to 
legitimatize  her  child.  She  has  given  it  his 
name." 

"Michael  Carmichael,"  said  Mary  softly. 

"You  guessed?"  he  asked,  in  surprise. 

"Yes.  He  has  Philip's  look.  Oh,  my  poor 
Phil!  not  to  have  known  all  these  years  that  he 


282       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

had  a  child — like  that!  Did  you  know,  Bent 
When  did  you  first  find  out  I '  * 

"Last  night.    She  told  me  herself." 

"Did  you  tell  him?" 

"No.  But  I  think  he  knew;  somehow  I  felt  he 
knew. ' ' 

"My  poor  Phil !"  She  was  sobbing  softly  now. 
"And  poor  little  lad — without  his  father  all  these 
years!  And  now!  Oh,  Ben,  Ben,  you  ought  to 
have  told  me.  You  ought  not  to  have  let  me  marry 
in  ignorance  of  all  this  story!" 

"Don't  think  that  I'm  not  saying  that  to  my- 
self now.  Don't  think  that  Philip  isn't,  either," 
he  answered  earnestly.  "The  only  thing  to  be 
said  in  extenuation  of  either  of  us  is  that  we 
neither  of  us  knew  how  serious  it  would  be. 
Neither  of  us  knew  that  she  could  claim  common- 
law  marriage — if  she  can,  which  remains  to  be 
proved.  And  of  course  neither  of  us  knew  any- 
thing of  the  child.  Years  had  passed  without 
word  or  sign  from  her.  Both  of  us  thought  it 
was  over  and  done  with,  and  it  is  not  the  sort  of 
thing  one  man  tells  of  another.  I  mean,  it's  the 
sort  of  thing  all  men  do — sometimes." 

The  endurance  in  her  eyes  smote  him  with  some 
dim  inner  shame. 

"There  was  no  intention  to  deceive  you!"  he 
went  on,  talking  to  cover  his  own  disquietude 
under  that  look  of  hers.  "No  trying  to  conceal 
anything;  only  those  things  naturally  aren't 
spoken  of.  Philip  would  never  have  married  you 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       283 

except  in  entire  good  faith;  you  believe  that,  don't 
you?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  answered,  "but  it  shows  me  that 
men  and  women  are  different,  after  all.  Had  it 
been  I,  I  would  have  told  him." 

"You  see  he  didn't  know  half,"  Ben  pleaded. 
"I  don't  suppose  he  was  with  her  more  than  a 
few  weeks.  He  couldn  't  have  dreamed  of  the  con- 
sequences :  of  the  child — and  this ! " 

"We  can  never  dream  of  the  consequences. 
Oh,  my  poor  Philip ! ' '  She  broke  into  low  sob- 
bing again,  restrained  and  very  pitiful  to  hear. 
"He  will  be  suffering  so,  and  I — I  can't  comfort 
him!" 

Ben's  eyes  smarted.  "He's  probably  thinking 
the  same  about  you,"  he  said  huskily.  After  a 
moment  he  continued:  "We  must  try  to  think 
what  our  plan  of  defense  will  be.  I  don't  see  how 
she  can  possibly  prove  her  case,  and  of  course 
we  '11  fight  every  step  of  the  way ! ' ' 

"I  could  bear  it  better  if  there  were  only  the 
woman,"  Mary  answered.  "But,  oh,  Ben,  to  fight 
against  a  child !  I  can 't  do  it,  I  can 't ! " 

"But,  Mary,  you  must!  For  Philip's  sake, 
and  your  own;  your  honor  is  at  stake.  It  is  a 
part  of  his.  What  else  can  you  do  but  fight?" 

4 '  I  don 't  know,  I  don 't  know, ' '  she  moaned  de- 
spairingly. Suddenly  she  broke  down  utterly  and 
clung  to  his  arm  with  both  hands.  "Oh,"  she 
said,  "help  me — help  me!  Tell  me,  what  am  I 
to  do?" 


284       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

But  that  was  a  question  still  unanswered  when, 
the  next  morning,  they  started  for  Los  Angeles 
to  keep  their  appointment  at  the  lawyer 's  office. 
Neither  had  slept  much,  and  both  showed  it  in 
different  ways.  Mary  was  pale  and  heavy-lidded, 
the  victim  of  a  sick  depression.  Ben  was  tense 
and  preoccupied.  Indeed,  his  position  was  pain- 
ful, looked  at  from  any  angle.  In  the  old  days  be- 
fore he  knew  Mary,  he  had  known  and  cared  much 
for  Sheelah  Delayne — Sheelah  Brent  then.  His 
friend  had  won  her  and  then  left  her.  And  now 
he  stood  with  that  friend's  wife,  fighting  their 
cause  against  the  woman  he  had  once  loved !  She 
had  her  own  case,  her  own  tragedy,  separate  and 
terrible;  and  her  claim  in  its  way  was  as  strong 
as  Mary's.  Yet  Ben's  loyalty  to  the  latter  never 
wavered.  The  inner  rights  of  the  case,  he  felt, 
were  Mary's,  and  whatever  courts  might  decide, 
he  stood  committed  to  her  cause.  For  Sheelah 
he  now  felt  something  like  horror.  The  thing  she 
was  doing  was  so  appalling:  assailing  the  honor 
of  a  man  whose  protection  he  felt  sure  she  had  no 
moral  right  to  claim,  after  all  these  years  of 
silence ! 

His  memory  contrasted  the  girl  he  had  known 
with  the  woman  who  had  confronted  him  in  the 
dressing-room  at  the  theater  that  night,  and  could 
find  scarcely  any  resemblance  between  them.  He 
felt  the  strength,  the  self-sufficiency  and  poise 
of  the  woman  who  succeeds.  She  had  asked  him 
who  the  lady  in  the  box  with  them  was,  and  when 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       285 

he  had  told  her,  for  just  a  moment  she  had  lost 
her  self-command. 

"His  wife!"  she  said.  "Did  you  say — his 
wife!'*  Then,  with  superb  control,  she  had 
lowered  her  voice  again  and  pointed  to  the  sleep- 
ing boy. 

"There  lies  his  son,"  she  had  said. 

The  news  had  staggered  him,  given  as  it  was  al- 
most within  earshot  of  his  two  other  friends ;  but 
having  stated  the  tremendous  fact,  Sheelah  had 
preserved  an  obstinate  silence.  He  had  had  no 
idea,  even  then,  what  claim  she  was  planning,  or 
that  she  was  planning  anything.  She  must  have 
acted  very  swiftly. 

They  were  very  silent  on  the  journey  up  to  Los 
Angeles  and  when  they  reached  Mr.  Merrill's  of- 
fice, he  received  them  at  once  in  his  inner  room. 
A  few  words  sufficed  to  make  the  terrible  situa- 
tion plain.  In  spite  of  their  consideration  and 
gentleness  for  her,  Mary  felt  that  both  men  real- 
ized they  were  encountering  a  tremendous  task. 

"Please  tell  us  just  what  the  case  is,"  Ben  said, 
after  Mary  had  introduced  the  two  men.  "I'm 
one  of  Carmichael's  oldest  friends,  and  if  there 
is  anything  to  be  done,  I  want  to  do  it." 

"My  partner  is  away  now,  arranging  for  bail," 
Mr.  Merrill  replied,  "if,  indeed,  Mr.  Carmichael 
will  be  allowed  out  on  bail.  That  is  in  the  judge 's 
discretion,  you  know.  But  I  rather  fear  that  on 
account  of  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  this  case, 
the  judge  may  refuse  bail." 


286       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"How  do  you  mean — peculiar  circumstances?" 
Ben  asked. 

"Well,  on  account  of  Miss  Delayne's  profession, 
her  stay  in  the  State  is  short,  and  the  case  may  be 
brought  up  for  trial  almost  at  once — in  less  than 
ten  days,  I  should  say,  and  possibly  in  even 
shorter  time." 

Ben  thought  for  a  moment  and  then  said: 
"Well,  I  can  be  of  no  use  here,  for  the  moment, 
and  I  think,  Mary,  I  will  leave  you  in  Mr.  Merrill's 
care  and  see  if  I  cannot  do  something  for  Philip. 
Tell  me  where  I  can  find  your  partner,  Mr.  Mer- 
rill, and  perhaps  I  can  be  of  service  to  my  friend. 
I'll  come  back  for  you,  Mary,  as  soon  as  possible." 

Mr.  Merrill  gave  him  the  necessary  directions, 
and  Ben  went  away,  leaving  lawyer  and  client  to- 
gether. Mary  looked  at  him  bravely  and  tried  to 
force  herself  to  smile. 

"Please  tell  me  the  truth,"  she  said,  "and  don't 
trouble  to  soften  it.  What  chance  has  my  hus- 
band against  this  charge?" 

"I  will  not  try  to  disguise  from  you,  dear 
Madam,  that  the  charge  is  serious,  very.  So  seri- 
ous that  I  dread  having  it  come  into  court  at  all, 
and  for  that  reason — ! 

At  that  moment  a  clerk  knocked  and  entered 
with  the  announcement:  "Mrs.  Philip  Carmi- 
chael." 

The  words  came  like  a  shock  to  Mary.  She  had 
not  thought  that  any  other  woman  could  use  that 
name.  Her  questioning  eyes  turned  to  the  lawyer. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       287 

"I  will  see  her  in  a  moment,"  Mr.  Merrill  said, 
dismissing  the  clerk.  Then  he  turned  to  Mary. 

"It  is  Miss  Delayne.  She  claims  the  name,  you 
see,  from  the  start.  As  I  was  saying,  I  greatly 
fear  having  a  case  of  this  sort  go  to  a  jury;  the 
child — you  see — er — is  a  strong  plea.  It  occurred 
to  me  that  it  might  be  possible  to  settle  it  out  of 
court,  and  for  that  reason  I  asked  her  to  come  to 
my  office  this  morning.  My  dear  Mrs.  Carmi- 
chael,"  he  leaned  toward  Mary,  and  his  manner 
was  very  earnest.  "I  may  be  asking  a  difficult 
thing  of  you,  but  I  feel  sure  you  would  not  hesi- 
tate at  anything  that  might  help  your  husband 
over  this  crisis,  would  you?" 

1 '  Oh,  no !    Tell  me  what  I  can  do  ?  " 

"See  this  woman  and  find  out  if  there  is  any- 
thing she  will  accept  in  settlement  of  her  claim — 
and  if  possible  induce  her  to  give  up  the  suit." 

Mary  shrank.     "Oh,  I  couldn't  talk  to  her!" 

Mr.  Merrill  waited  in  silence  a  moment,  while 
her  mind  rapidly  reviewed  the  situation:  Philip 
in  disgrace,  in  prison,  his  honor  smirched,  his  good 
name  gone.  Oh,  surely  anything  that  she  could 
do,  she  must  do,  to  save  him.  She  turned  to  Mr. 
Merrill. 

"I'll  see  her,"  she  said,  "if  you  really  think  I 
can  do  any  good  in  the  matter. ' ' 

"It's  our  only  chance,"  the  lawyer  replied  ear- 
nestly. "It's  for  your  husband's  sake." 

"For  my  husband's  sake,  of  course,"  she  re- 
peated almost  mechanically.  Her  mind  was  leap- 


288      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF.  HIS  HOUSE 

ing  ahead,  grappling  with  the  difficult  task  before 
her. 

"I'll  leave  you  alone  together,  for  a  time,"  Mr. 
Merrill  said,  "but  I'll  be  within  call,  if  you  want 
me. "  He  pressed  a  button  and  his  clerk  appeared 
at  once.  "Ask  that  lady  to  come  in,"  he  said 
briefly.  Mary  noticed  that  he  gave  her  no  name. 
She  arose  and  stood  by  the  window,  her  back  to 
the  room,  while  Mr.  Merrill  greeted  the  woman 
who  entered.  Then  she  turned. 

She  saw  before  her  a  strong  and  splendid  per- 
sonality, a  figure  lithe,  nervous,  finely  poised,  a 
face,  which  for  its  years,  held  the  epitome  of  ex- 
perience. There  was  something  universal  about 
her,  as  if  she  stood  for  the  figure  of  Woman,  all 
women,  not  only  one,  throughout  all  generations. 
She  was  of  a  type  allied  to  all  times,  to  all  races. 
Her  figure,  though  still  slender,  was  cast  in  a 
heroic  mould ;  and  her  head  rose  from  her  shoul- 
ders like  a  goddess',  free  and  fearless.  The 
weakness  of  the  face,  if  any,  lay  in  the  too  small 
nose,  the  tender  mouth;  but  over  these  were  set 
magnificent  eyes,  deep  in  color,  rich  in  expression, 
under  a  singularly  noble  brow.  Black  hair  sprang 
from  either  side  of  the  parting  in  loose,  heavy 
waves,  with  a  vitality  of  its  own  which  fitly 
crowned  the  regal  individuality.  Mary,  as  she 
looked  at  her,  felt  a  hot  pain  of  jealousy  that  was 
primitive  and  fundamental.  It  had  nothing  to  do 
with  her  reason.  It  was  instinctive.  As  it  ebbed 
away,  it  left  her  cold  with  a  strange,  new  fear. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       289 

Mr.  Merrill  introduced  the  two  women  rather 
nervously  and  added: 

"I  have  brought  you  together  to  see  if  it  is 
not  possible  for  us  to  arrive  at  some  reasonable 
adjustment  of — er — the  circumstances  in  this — er 
—rather  difficult  case." 

Sheelah  Delayne  looked  at  him  with  quiet  scep- 
ticism. 

"What  do  you  call  'reasonable"?"  she  asked. 
Her  voice  was  warm  and  low  in  its  natural  quality. 
Mr.  Merrill  replied  hastily: 

"Oh — well,  suppose  you  talk  that  over,  you  two 
who  are  most  concerned,  and  if  there  is  any  way 
of  settling  the  question  and  preventing  a  most  sad 
scandal,  I'm  sure  we  shall  all  be  better  off.  My 
aim,  of  course,  is  to  save  my  client,  Mr.  Car- 
michael,  from  a  public  trial  which  would  be  very 
sensational ;  but  I  am  also  anxious  to  prevent  you 
ladies  from  undergoing  what  I  am  sure  would  be 
a  distressing  experience.  You  will,  perhaps, 
speak  more  freely  if  I  am  not  here,  but  I  shall  be 
just  out  there,"  he  motioned  toward  the  ante- 
room, "if  either  of  you  wants  me." 

"I  left  my  boy  there,"  said  Sheelah  Delayne. 

"I'll  keep  an  eye  on  him,  Madam.  Meantime 
let  me  urge  you  both  to  arrive  at  some  compro- 
mise." 

He  withdrew,  and  left  them  looking  fixedly  at 
each  other.  They  remained  standing. 

"  I  do  not  know  what '  compromise '  your  lawyer 
has  in  mind,  Madam, ' '  Sheelah  Delayne  said  after 


290      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

an  interval,  ''nor  do  I  know  what  we  can  have  to 
say  to  each  other.  We  are  in  opposite  camps. 
We  are  fighting  for  different  things.'* 

Mary  answered,  finding  voice  at  last,  out  of 
her  teeming  thoughts.  "In  opposite  camps,  per- 
haps, but  surely  fighting  for  the  same  thing.  It 
is  more  than  our  own  personal  honor.  I  have 
looked  at  you,  and  I  am  sure  it  is  something 
bigger  than  yourself  which  has  driven  you  to 
this  extreme  measure;  and  since  we  are  both 
fighting  for  that  dearer  thing  than  our  own  little 
selves,  surely,  we  can  reach  some  agreement — 
surely?" 

Sheelah  Delayne  regarded  her  steadfastly. 
"What  is  that  'dearer  thing*  you  mean!"  she 
asked. 

"Why — Philip!"  answered  Mary  simply. 

The  other  drew  off  and  threw  back  her  head 
with  a  scornful  laugh  in  one  syllable.  "Is  he 
dearer  to  you  than  your  own  honor!"  she  said. 

"Than  anything  in  the  world!" 

"Then  I'm  sorry  for  you,  for  he  was  to  me — 
once."  Her  voice  was  hard.  "But  now  it  is  not 
his  honor,  nor  himself,  nor  his  wife,  that  matters 
to  me  one  whit!  It  is  his  child." 

It  was  Mary's  turn  to  draw  away  trembling. 
"I  know,"  she  just  breathed,  "I  know." 

"Then,  if  you  know,  how  can  you  think  that 
any  compromise  is  possible!  The  man — your 
man — matters  nothing  at  all  to  me!  But  what 
should  I  say  to  my  child  in  years  to  come — when 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       291 

he,  too,  is  a  man — if  I  neglected  to  place  his  claim 
now?" 

Mary  summoned  the  last  of  her  fortitude  and 
faced  the  other  bravely.  The  flame  of  her  heart 
shone  through  her. 

"What  will  your  child  say  to  you — in  the  years 
to  come — if  you  ruin  his  father?" 

Their  looks  encountered  and  grappled  with  the 
mind  behind  each,  like  two  strong  fighters  in 
a  ring.  Then  Sheelah  Delayne  shook  herself 
free. 

"He  is  mine — not  his  father's!"  she  said. 

"Not  if  you  prove  your  marriage,"  answered 
Mary  earnestly.  "Then  his  father's  claim  is  at 
least  equal  to  yours." 

"His  claim — equal?"  said  Sheelah  Delayne, 
and  glared  like  a  tigress.  "How  dare  you  say 
such  a  thing!  I  bore  my  son  in  shame  and  terror 
too  deep  for  you  even  to  dream  of.  I  brought 
him  up,  alone,  in  such  destitution  as  you  can't 
even  imagine.  I  toiled  and  struggled  day  and 
night;  I  went  ragged  and  hungry  because  of  him 
— worse ! — I  saw  him  go  ragged  and  hungry,  too ! 
And  in  spite  of  all  my  struggle  and  final  success, 
it  has  marked  the  child  and  made  him — something 
different  to  others!  My  little  lad — my  little 
lad!"  Her  voice  broke,  but  had  a  wild  music  in 
it,  like  strong  trees  shaken  by  the  wind.  "I 
couldn't  give  him  all  his  due — his  right  of  child- 
hood— but  I  gave  him  all  I  could — my  time,  my 
love,  myself!  And  you  dare  say  that  any  man — 


292      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

any  strange  father — can  present  a  claim  'equal* 
to  mine!" 

The  long  vibrations  of  her  voice,  which  had 
deepened  instead  of  rising  in  intensity,  reached 
and  shook  the  soul  of  Mary  Carmichael.  As  she 
listened,  she  forced  back  tears  of  sympathy,  until 
they  broke  from  her  in  passionate  pity. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "I  can  imagine  and  feel  and 
understand  it  all — what  you've  been  through— 
the  long  fight  of  it — alone  1  But  Philip  didn't 
know!  Why  did  you  hide  from  him  all  these 
years!  He  didn't  even  know — about  the  child." 

"No,  I  know  that;  he  left  me  before  I  knew  my- 
self." 

"There — I  was  sure  of  it!  Then,  when  you 
knew,  why  didn't  you  tell  him!" 

The  other  hardened  again.  "Because  he  had 
left  me;  he  was  tired  of  me.  I  didn't  try  to  find 
him  because  I  knew  that.  I  had  my  own  fierce 
pride  then.  I  don't  care  now — only  for  the  boy. 
It  isn't  the  man  I  want,  nor  his  name,  nor  his  sup- 
port, nor  anything  but  his  child — and  to  prove  his 
legitimacy ! ' ' 

"But  think  of  the  awful  cost.  Oh,  is  it  worth 
it!  To  condemn  a  man — the  child's  own  father 
— to  such  public  shame — " 

"We  have  had  shame!" 

"Ajid  such  a  misery  of  self-reproach — unde- 
served ! ' ' 

"I  have  had  that,  too!  There  isn't  anything 
you  can  appeal  to  me  with,  because  there  isn't 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       293 

anything  else  I  want — but  to  start  my  boy  right, 
with  the  proved  right  to  his  name.  When  that  is 
won,  and  I  am  declared  Philip  Carmichael's  law- 
ful wife,  I'll  divorce  him,  and  you  can  re-marry 
him,  if  you  still  wish  to.  He  may  have  other 
children.  I  will  renounce  for  my  son,  his  first- 
born, all  property  rights.  But  his  name  I  claim 
for  the  boy!  To  get  that,  I'll  fight  to  the  last 
ditch!" 

"And  to  keep  it  unstained,  I'll  fight  to  the  last 
ditch,  too,"  said  Mary  steadfastly. 

They  measured  each  other  with  deep  looks. 
Sheelah  Delayne  saw  in  her  opponent  a  courage 
that  matched  her  own,  a  greater  self-command, 
a  finer,  more  delicate  breeding;  for  the  first  time 
in  the  interview  she  heard  the  ring  of  steel  in  the 
voice  that  had  been  all  sweetness  and  pleading. 
Then  she  drew  herself  up  with  an  air  of  finality. 

"So  be  it!"  she  said,  "but  I'm  sorry  for  you! 
God!  Why  are  two  such  women  wasted  on  such 
a  man!" 

Mary  moved  toward  the  door.  "It  is  useless 
to  prolong  this,"  she  said.  "I'll  call  Mr.  Mer- 
rill." 

She  opened  the  door,  but  instead  of  the  lawyer 
there  entered  with  a  rush  and  a  laugh — Michael 
Carmichael.  He  went  straight  to  Mary  and  laid 
his  head  against  her  arm,  his  eyes  turned  the 
other  way,  toward  Mr.  Merrill. 

"Mother,"  the  child  said  gaily,  "he's  been  tell- 
ing me  such  funny  stories !  Oh,  it  isn't  Mother!" 


294       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

and  he  would  have  drawn  away,  but  she  caught 
his  shoulder  gently,  and  slowly  passed  her  hand 
down  his  arm,  releasing  him  to  the  length  of  her 
reach,  but  keeping  his  hand  in  hers,  while  her  eyes 
searched  his  face.  The  boy  looked  back  at  her 
frankly,  curiously,  and  as  for  Sheelah  Delayne, 
after  the  first  instinctive  movement  toward  her 
son,  she  stood  stark  still  and  watched  them. 

"Philip's  mouth — Philip's  eyes — and  the  same 
look  out  of  them!  Oh!"  Mary  let  go  his  hand, 
and  her  own  fell  at  her  side  clinched  hard,  to  keep 
back  the  utterance  of  her  pain,  which  in  spite  of 
her  broke  through.  "Thank  God — it  isn't  a 
woman-child — oh,  thank  God!" 

They  passed  out  silently,  the  boy  with  a  linger- 
ing backward  look. 

Mary  did  not  wait  for  Ben  to  return  for  her  but 
left  a  message  for  him  that  she  had  gone  directly 
home.  At  all  costs  she  had  to  be  alone  after  the 
rack  of  the  scene  through  which  she  had  passed. 
Ben  followed  on  the  next  train.  She  came  to 
meet  him  as  soon  as  she  heard  his  step  on  the 
porch.  She  had  been  wandering  like  a  lost  soul 
about  the  house. 

1  'Did  you  see  Philip!" 

"Yes." 

"How  did  he  look?  What  did  he  say?  Did 
you  give  him  my  message?" 

"I  told  him  that  you  sent  your  love,  and  that 
you  said  you  understood." 

"Yes?" 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       295 

"He  didn't  answer,  Mary.  He  turned  away, 
and  I  couldn't  see  his  face."  After  a  moment, 
he  added;  "I  spoke  of  bail,  but  he  wouldn't  hear 
of  it,  begged  me  not  to  do  anything  about  it,  said  he 
'couldn't  face  Mary  until  he  was  cleared.'  I 
think  the  judge  will  deny  it,  anyway,  in  view  of 
the  special  circumstances." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  the  case  is  to  be  rushed  to  trial 
on  account  of  Miss  Delayne  having  to  leave  the 
State  shortly.  Philip  will  be  indicted  by  the 
grand  jury  to-morrow,  probably,  and  the  trial 
will  take  place  a  few  days  after."  He  went  to 
her  and  took  her  hands  in  his  strong,  kind  grasp. 
"You  are  to  command  me  in  any  way,"  he  said. 
"Anything  I  can  do,  you  know.  I'll  stay  with 
you.  And  we'll  see  it  through — and  win  out, 
yet." 

She  leant  her  weight  wearily  on  his  supporting 
hands. 

"I  think,  and  think,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't 
see  any  way  out.  I  don't  even  know  what's 
right,  any  more.  I'm  all  confused!  Oh,  Ben, 
Ben,  what  am  I  to  do?" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"The  watchmen  that  went  about  the  city  found  me,  they 
smote  me,  they  wounded  me;  the  keepers  of  the  walls  took 
away  my  veil  from  me." 

THE  SONG  OF  SOLOMON. 

THROUGH  the  days  which  intervened  be- 
tween the  arrest  and  the  trial,  Mary  bore 
herself  outwardly  with  calm  and  intense 
reserve.  Inwardly,  she  felt  a  creeping  sickness 
— a  fever  of  fear  and  the  kind  of  jealousy  that 
belongs  to  primitive  instinct  and  is  "cruel  as  the 
grave."  That  glorious  creature,  Sheelah  De- 
layne,  who  claimed  to  be  Philip's  wife,  even 
though  she  was  not,  in  reality,  was  yet  the  mother 
of  his  child,  and  ought  to  be  his  wife,  for  they 
were  a  family, — Philip,  Sheelah,  and  Michael. 
She,  Mary,  was  the  one  outside.  So  she  thought, 
morbidly,  and  then  brought  herself  up  sharply 
and  condemned  such  a  thought  as  absurd.  She 
was  Philip's  wife;  she  only  had  the  right  to  his 
name.  Marriage  was  not  a  claim  which  a  strange 
woman  could  institute;  it  was  a  sacramental 
union  of  two  people  in  a  life-partnership,  and 
though  theirs  had  been  only  a  civil  ceremony,  it 
had  been  hallowed  by  love  and  mutual  faithful- 
ness. But  the  love — had  it  been  great  enough  to 
withstand  the  disillusion  of  everyday  life,  of  dis- 


appointment,  of  failure?  Had  it?  She  com- 
pelled her  relentless  honesty  to  answer,  and  the 
answer  was:  her  love  had  survived  all  tests  to 
which  it  had  been  put,  but  his — had  not.  She 
faced  the  acknowledgment  of  it  in  her  own  heart 
silently,  fearlessly,  absolutely.  She  conceded  her 
own  failure.  And  she  asked  the  old  bitter 
"why?"  of  immemorial  woman.  In  spite  of  all 
her  sacrifice  and  service,  somehow  she  had  failed 
to  mean  all  to  him.  Having  admitted  that  to  her- 
self, many  recollected  things  confirmed  it,  and  she 
came  to  see  that  Philip  had  never  loved  her  as 
she  had  loved  him.  She  knew  he  had  adored 
what  he  called  her  "dear  ways" — little  tricks  of 
speech,  little  gentlenesses  of  manner — but  in  the 
place  to  which  she  was  now  come,  she  revolted 
from  these  husks  which  held  no  kernel  of  the 
grain  for  which  her  soul  was  hungering. 
Philip's  feeling  for  her  was  what  he  might  have 
for  any  woman  in  the  natural,  human  tie,  and  not 
the  divinely  ordained  thing  which  she  had  thought 
it.  There  grew  in  her  a  passionate  longing 
for  her  true  portion  in  him,  and  she  knew  not 
how  to  obtain  it.  Meantime,  she  had  his  case  to 
fight,  his  honor  to  defend,  him  to  stand  by,  how- 
ever the  day  went,  whether  they  won  or  lost. 
She  had  only  got  as  far  as  that  when  the  day  for 
the  trial  came. 

Ben,  sorely  against  his  will,  had  been  sub- 
poenaed as  a  witness  for  the  State.  "I  can't 
think  what  on  earth  they  expect  to  get  out  of  me 


298      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

to  help  their  case,"  he  said,  "for  I  hope  my  evi- 
dence may  quash  it." 

They  sat  in  the  courtroom  with  many  other 
listeners,  for  the  case  by  its  very  nature  had1 
attracted  widespread  attention.  Friends  and 
neighbors  from  Santa  Rita  jostled  elbows  with 
total  strangers.  Mary  was  very  pale,  behind  her 
veil,  and  her  eyes — "the  good  gay  blue"  eyes,  as 
Ben  always  thought  of  them — were  tragic.  He 
sat  beside  her,  very  nervous  for  his  friend,  very 
solicitous  for  his  friend's  wife.  As  Philip  came 
in,  his  glance  searched  the  room  and  swiftly  found 
her.  She  put  back  her  veil  for  a  moment,  with 
courage  and  sweetness,  and  made  her  look  meet 
his  with  a  tender  smile.  His  eyes  thanked  her 
and  then  fell,  as  he  went  on  to  his  place.  They 
had  not  met  since  the  day  after  the  play — more 
than  a  week  before.  As  she  lowered  her  veil 
again,  Mary  felt  a  sob  in  her  throat.  Her  Philip 
— her  beloved — to  suffer  this  terrible  ignominy, 
for  an  unf orgiven  sin  of  many  years  ago !  What 
would  she  not  give  to  be  able  to  save  him  from 
it! 

The  prosecutor  was  bringing  the  charge  against 
Philip  for  bigamy.  In  the  terse,  terrible  lan- 
guage of  the  law,  Mary  heard  it  set  forth  that  the 
said  Philip  Carmichael  and  the  said  Sheelah  De- 
layne  had  agreed,  as  permitted  by  the  laws  of  the 
State  of  New  York  to  live  together  as  man  and 
wife.  The  evidence  further  set  forth  that  he  did 
desert  her  and  leave  her  with  unborn  child.  That 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       299 

he  did  on  December  18,  1903,  in  San  Francisco, 
marry  Lady  Mary  Stanhope,  and  up  to  the  time 
of  his  arrest  was  living  with  her  in  Santa  Rita. 
In  his  address  to  the  jury,  the  prosecutor  stated 
that  he  expected  to  prove  his  charge,  both  by  the 
testimony  of  witnesses  who  would  swear  to  the 
truth  of  the  claim  made  by  Miss  Delayne  (to  give 
her  her  stage  name),  and  also  by  the  written  evi- 
dence of  an  entry  in  the  hotel  guest-book,  May 
20,  1895.  The  register  was  duly  shown  to  the 
judge  and  jury,  and  the  signature  of  "Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Philip  Carmichael"  examined.  Following 
this  came  the  testimony  of  the  hotel  clerk  who 
had  been  on  duty  at  that  time  and  who  identified 
the  plaintiff  as  the  person  who  had  been  a  guest 
at  the  hotel,  under  that  name.  This  witness 
proved  quite  unshakable,  and  when  it  was  sar- 
castically suggested  by  the  defense  that  he  could 
hardly  remember  a  guest  at  so  great  a  distance 
of  time  or  might  mistake  her  for  somebody  else, 
the  hotel  clerk  replied: 

"No  one  who  has  ever  seen  her  could  forget 
her  or  think  she  was  any  one  else." 

A  murmur  of  interest  and  approbation  went 
about  the  courtroom,  which  was  a  tribute  to  the 
actress.  Then  Sheelah  Delayne  was  called  to  the 
witness  chair.  To  the  question  of  her  name  she 
answered  distinctly:  "Sheelah  Carmichael." 

The  name  came  as  a  shock  to  many  there,  and 
again  a  whisper  of  interest  stirred  the  spectators. 
The  judge  called  for  quiet  in  the  court.  Then, 


300      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

under  the  skilful,  guiding  questions  of  the  public 
prosecutor,  Sheelah  Delayhe  told  her  story. 

With  another  type  of  woman,  it  might  have 
been  a  pitiable  and  hackneyed  tale  of  a  young 
girl's  too  generous  trust,  and  so  might  have  held 
an  appeal  to  men's  chivalry  and  protection,  but 
never  for  a  moment  did  this  woman  descend  to 
such  an  overture.  She  made  no  bid  for  pity  but 
based  her  claim  solely  upon  the  law  of  the  State, 
which  protection,  only,  she  demanded.  In  quiet 
tones  she  answered  every  question  put  to  her,  and 
her  strength  of  character,  her  repose  and  re- 
sourcefulness, made  a  deep  impression  on  all  who 
heard  her.  Bit  by  bit  the  prosecutor  established 
her  statements  of  how  she  had  met  Mr.  Car- 
michael,  how  he  had  come  on  again  and  again  to 
join  the  theatrical  company  with  which  she  was 
acting  at  the  time,  how  he  had  proposed  marriage 
to  her,  and  that  they  had  not  been  able  to  have  the 
civil  ceremony  performed  because  they  were  not 
in  one  place  long  enough  to  get  a  license,  or  she 
was  under  age  for  the  law  of  that  State.  There 
was  always  a  satisfactory  reason  why  the  civil 
ceremony  was  not  performed. 

"And  when  you  got  to  New  York  at  the  end  of 
the  season,  why  did  you  not  have  the  civil  cere- 
mony performed  there!"  the  prosecutor  asked! 
gently. 

"It  was  not  necessary,  since  common-law  mar- 
riage was  at  that  time  perfectly  legal  in  New 
York,"  she  replied. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       301 

"You  did  not  regard  yourself  as  Mr.  Car- 
michael's  wife  until  you  reached  New  York?" 

"I  did  not,  until  then." 

The  judge  bent  over  his  desk. 

"Now,  you  must  know,  Madam,  that  common- 
law  marriage  depends  upon  the  consent  and  in- 
tention of  both  parties  to  the  union.  Your  claim 
is  sufficient  proof  of  your  intention.  Have  you 
any  proof  of  Mr.  CarmichaePs?" 

It  was  an  intense  moment,  and  every  one 
strained  forward,  looking  and  listening.  Ben 
confidently  expected  that  question  to  be  too  much 
for  the  witness.  He  thought  to  see  her  break 
down.  For  the  space  of  a  breath  or  two  she 
hesitated,  while  the  silence  deepened  in  the  court- 
room. Then  she  straightened  herself  and  drew 
a  ring  off  the  thumb  of  her  left  hand. 

1 l 1  have  this  ring,  your  Honor,  which  was  given 
to  me  in  lieu  of  a  wedding-ring,  by — my  husband. 
It  bears  the  coat  of  arms  of  his  family.  He  drew 
it  off  his  own  finger  to  give  to  me — the  night  we 
decided  to  make  our  union  legal.  You  can  see  it 
is  a  man's  ring — too  large  for  me.  Is  that  evi- 
dence of  his  intention?" 

The  prosecutor  retained  the  ring.  "I  have 
finished  with  this  witness,  your  Honor,"  he  said. 
He  knew  she  had  told  a  good,  strong  story  and 
saw  its  influence  on  the  minds  of  the  jury.  Mary 
felt  that  things  began  to  look  very  black  for 
Philip.  From  where  she  sat,  she  could  see  him 
distinctly,  and  she  noted  how  his  expression 


302       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

changed  to  incredulity  when  the  ring  was  spoken 
of.  Ben's  watchful  kindness  followed  her 
thought. 

"I  feel  sure  that's  a  lie  about  the  ring,"  he 
said.  "Look  at  Phil's  face!  He  never  gave  it 
to  her.  Don't  be  discouraged.  Merrill  will 
shake  her  testimony,  if  it  is  false." 

Mr.  Merrill,  after  a  moment's  consultation 
with  his  client,  arose  to  take  up  the  cross-examina- 
tion, and  Sheelah  Delayne,  realizing  she  had 
passed  from  the  friendly  handling  of  the  public 
prosecutor,  braced  herself  to  the  encounter  with 
the  enemy.  Her  arms  were  tightly  folded,  and 
her  look  met  his  squarely. 

"You  say,"  began  Mr.  Merrill  suavely,  "that 
you  did  not  regard  yourself  as  Mr.  Carmichael's 
wife  until  you  reached  New  York  ? ' ' 

"I  was  not,  until  then." 

"Yet  you  had  lived  with  him  while  on  tour!" 

The  prosecutor  was  on  his  feet  at  once.  "Your 
Honor,  I  protest— 

"Overruled,"  came  the  Judge's  even  tones, 
and  Mr.  Merrill  repeated  the  question. 

"You  had  lived  with  him  previously?" 

"Yes."     The  admission  came  defiantly. 

"So  that,  when  you  reached  New  York,  the  af- 
fair was  pretty  well  over ;  you  agreed  to  separate 
soon  after,  did  you  not?" 

"On  the  contrary,  when  we  reached  New  York, 
we  agreed  to  live  together  as  man  and  wife  for  the 
rest  of  our  lives!" 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       303 

"Ah!  and  how  long  did  you  live  together — in 
New  York?" 

"About  a  month." 

Men  smiled  cynically,  women  pityingly.  Mr. 
Merrill  continued: 

"You  were  seeing  a  good  deal  of  other  men  at 
this  time,  were  you  not!  You  knew,  for  instance, 
Mr.  Baldwin,  and  the  man  whose  name  you  bear 
on  the  stage — Mr.  Delayne  ?" 

"I  knew  Mr.  Baldwin  slightly.  Mr.  Delayne  I 
did  not  meet  until  Mr.  Carmichael  had  left  me." 

"How  long  after  Mr.  Carmichael  left  you  was 
the  child  born?" 

"Within  eight  months." 

"And  you  claim  that  he  is  Mr.  Carmichael 's!" 

"Certainly  I  do!" 

"In  view  of  your  subsequent  life  with  Mr.  De- 
layne, that  statement  may  need  proof.  You 
are  called  by  Mr.  Delayne 's  name,  you  are  sup- 
posed to  be  his  wife.  How  do  we  know  he  is  not 
the  father  of  your  child  1 ' ' 

Mr.  Merrill  had  succeeded  in  angering  the  wit- 
ness. The  prosecutor  was  on  his  feet  again, 
vehemently  protesting,  but  again  tne  Judge's 
even  "Overruled"  backed  up  the  question. 

Sheelah  Delayne  seemed  suffocating,  as  she 
forced  herself  to  answer  in  low,  dead-level  tones : 

"Let  my  son  come  here  a  moment." 

The  boy  was  brought  to  her  and  placed  on  the 
witness-stand  beside  her.  He  lifted  a  sensitive 
face  and  turned  shyly  away  from  the  room  and 


304       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

the  gaze  of  so  many  strangers.  She  took  his  hand 
in  one  of  hers,  and  with  the  other  she  made  a 
gesture  indicating  the  likeness  between  the  boy 
and  Philip,  and  said  magnificently: 

"This  is  my  answer!" 

The  action  was  superb,  and  the  likeness  was 
undeniable.  The  same  dark  brown  hair,  the  same 
look  out  of  the  eyes,  although  the  boy's  were 
brown  in  color,  the  same  distinctive  mouth  and 
chin.  It  was  a  living  witness  to  corroborate  her 
claim. 

"That  is  all,"  said  Mr.  Merrill.  And  indeed 
he  felt  it  was  more  than  enough.  The  effect  on 
the  jury  was  marked.  A  mother  and  child  will 
appeal  to  men's  minds  against  every  other  claim 
in  the  world.  Mr.  Merrill  felt  he  had  gained  lit- 
tle from  his  cross-examination,  even  though  he 
had  managed  to  defame  the  woman's  character, 
making  known  her  irregular  connection  with  Mr. 
Delayne.  As  they  left  the  witness-box,  Philip's 
eyes  followed  the  boy  almost  hungrily,  and  the 
child  caught  the  look  and  returned  it  wonder- 
ingly.  They  sat  down,  not  far  from  Mary.  Be- 
hind her  veil  she  saw  and  noted  everything,  and 
her  busy,  bewildered  mind  kept  crying : 

"What  shall  I  do;  oh,  what  can  I  do  to  save 
him?" 

Then  a  Mr.  Kinney  was  called  by  the  prose- 
cutor. He  had  been  an  actor  in  the  company 
when  the  plaintiff  was  known  by  her  maiden 
name  of  Sheelah  Brent  and  was  now  associated 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       305 

with  her  present  company.  He  testified  that  he 
had  heard  the  defendant,  Mr.  Carmichael,  promise 
to  marry  Sheelah  Brent  while  they  were  on  tour 
through  New  England,  and  also  that  he  had  met 
them  afterward  in  New  York,  when  Mr.  Car- 
michael had  introduced  him  gaily  to  "his  wife." 
His  statements,  like  those  of  the  hotel  clerk,  were 
simple  and  quite  unshakable.  When  he  left  the 
witness-stand,  there  seemed  little  hope  for  Philip. 

And  then  Ben  was  called.  Sheelah  Delayne 
looked  at  him  closely  as  he  passed  her  on  his  way 
to  the  stand,  and  Mary  thought  she  dreaded  his 
testimony.  The  thought  revived  her  courage. 
After  a  few  preliminary  questions,  the  prosecutor 
asked : 

"What  is  your  address!'* 

"I  am  staying  at  present  in  Santa  Eita,  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carmichael." 

"You  have  known  them  both  for  some  time?" 

"Oh,  yes — many  years." 

"Have  you  ever  visited  them  before!" 

"Yes,  for  a  few  days  shortly  after  their  mar- 
riage." 

* '  Did  Mrs.  Carmichael  tell  you  about  the  circum- 
stances of  their  marriage?" 

"Oh,  yes.    She  often  spoke  of  it." 

"You  knew  the  plaintiff,  Miss  Delayne,  before 
her  marriage?" 

*  *  I  knew  her  when  she  was  Miss  Sheelah  Brent. " 

"You  recognize  her  as  Mrs.  Carmichael?" 

"I  do  not." 


306      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

''Were  you  never  introduced  to  her  as  Mrs. 
Carmichael  ? ' ' 

Ben  hesitated.     "Only  in  fun,"  he  replied. 

"But  you  were  introduced  to  her  under  that 
name!  By  whom!" 

Ben's  answer  came  unwillingly. 

"By  my  friend,  Philip  Carmichael — but  only 
in  fun." 

"There's  no  fun  about  matrimony,"  said  the 
prosecutor  severely,  and  oblivious  of  the  laughter 
in  the  room,  he  continued : 

"You  admit,  then,  that  you  have  known  Miss 
Delayne  as  Mrs.  Carmichael?" 

"I  do  not,"  said  Ben. 

"But  you  have  admitted  it.  You  have  said 
that  your  friend,  Philip  Carmichael,  presented 
you  to  his  wife,  Mrs.  Carmichael." 

"He  did  it  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  There  was 
no  intention  on  either  side." 

"Strike  out  that  last  clause,"  said  the  judge, 
"state  facts,  not  opinions,  Mr.  Baldwin." 

"Can  you  prove  that  there  was  no  intention!" 

"No,  but  I  know  it." 

The  prosecutor  opened  a  series  of  rapid-fire 
questions  meant  to  confuse  the  witness. 

"How  can  you  know  it!" 

"Because  I  knew  of  the  relation  between  my 
friend  and  Miss  Delayne,  and  it  was  not  matri- 
mony." 

"Yet  he  called  her  his  wife?" 

"Yes,"  unwillingly  from  Ben. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       307 

"And  lived  with  her  as  such?" 
•  "I  believe  so,"  still  more  unwillingly. 

'  *  You  visited  them  at  the  hotel  where  they  were 
registered  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carmichael?" 

"Yes — once." 

"And  when  you  sent  up  your  card,  or  were  an- 
nounced, presumably  you  asked  for  Mrs.  Car- 
michael?" 

"I  do  not  think  so." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  did  not  regard  her  as  Mrs.  Car- 
michael.  I  would  have  called  upon  my  friend, 
Philip  Carmichael." 

"Did  you  ever  call  upon  Miss  Delayne  after 
Mr.  Carmichael  had  left  the  country?" 

Ben's  memory  took  him  back  to  a  very  mo- 
mentous occasion.  He  stirred  restively. 

"I  would  rather  not  speak  about  it,"  he  said, 
"it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  case." 

"It  has  this  to  do  with  it,"  snapped  the  prose- 
cutor, "that  when  you  called  upon  the  woman 
known  at  that  hotel  as  Mrs.  Carmichael,  you  pre- 
sumably asked  for  her  by  that  name  ? ' ' 

"Presumably,"  Ben  admitted. 

"Ah,"  said  the  prosecutor  with  satisfaction, 
and  he  slackened  the  speed  of  his  questions  a  little. 

"You  admit,  then,  that  you  were  presented  by 
your  friend  to  his  wife,  Mrs.  Carmichael ;  that  you 
know  him  to  have  lived  with  her  as  such;  that  you 
have  yourself  called  upon  her  as  such — " 

"Yes,  but—" 


308      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"It  is  enough.  I  have  finished  with  this  wit- 
ness, your  Honor." 

Mr.  Merrill  regarded  Ben  thoughtfully  before 
taking  up  his  cross-examination.  "I  have  but  one 
question  to  put  to  this  witness,*'  he  said,  as  he 
arose.  "It  is:  Did  you,  as  an  intimate  friend 
of  both  parties,  know  of  any  pledge  given  or  ex- 
changed by  them,  such  as  the  ring  which  Miss 
Delayne  speaks  of!" 

"I  did  not,"  answered  Ben,  with  relief.  But 
he  left  the  witness-stand  with  the  feeling  he  had 
done  little  good  for  his  friend. 

The  judge  asked  for  further  proofs  of  the  sec- 
ond marriage. 

"The  public  records  were  lost  in  the  fire  at  the 
time  of  the  San  Francisco  earthquake,"  the  prose- 
cutor replied,  "as  were  all  marriage  records.  Be- 
sides Mr.  Baldwin's  testimony,  I  took  the  precau- 
tion to  obtain  the  newspapers  of  that  date,  and  I 
found  two  notices  of  the  marriage." 

"No  other  proof!"  asked  the  judge. 

"None;  they  are  known  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Car- 
michael  in  Santa  Rita,  where  they  have  an  estab- 
lished residence." 

"But  are  there  no  witnesses  to  the  ceremony!" 

"I  understand  that  both  witnesses  perished  in 
the  fire,  your  Honor." 

The  judge  sat  thoughtful,  and  the  prosecutor 
added:  "That  is  the  case  for  the  people,  your 
Honor." 

In  his  address  to  the  jury,  Mr.  Merrill  said  that 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      309 

he  hoped  to  prove  that  his  client,  Mr.  Cannichael, 
was  innocent  of  the  charge  against  him,  because 
innocent  of  any  intention  or  agreement  to  marry 
the  plaintiff,  Miss  Delayne.  He  said:  "People 
don't  become  man  and  wife  simply  by  living  to- 
gether. They  must  intend  to  be  married.  Many 
men  have  been  held  for  blackmail  by  taking  a 
girl  from  the  tenderloin  district  to  a  hotel  for  a 
few  days  or  hours.  This  case  is  similar.  The  as- 
sociation was  short,  the  matter  of  a  few  weeks, 
and  was  begun  and  ended  in  ignorance  of  the  law. 
While  that  excuses  no  man,  it  should  greatly  miti- 
gate judgment  in  this  case,  as  Mr.  Carmichael  was 
at  that  time  an  alien,  though  he  has  since  applied 
for  naturalization.  I  would  like  to  add  that  since 
1902  the  law  of  the  State  of  New  York  has 
changed,  and  people  can  no  longer  claim  com- 
mon-law marriage  on  such  slim  evidence.  Thus 
you  see  how  the  government  has  come  to  con- 
demn the  very  law  on  which  the  plaintiff  is  bas- 
ing her  claim.  Had  her  association  with  Mr.  Car- 
michael taken  place  since  1902,  instead  of  prior 
to  it,  she  would  not  have  any  ground  on  which  to 
proceed.  I  will  ask  my  client  to  testify  for  him- 
self." 

Amidst  the  most  intense  interest  and  curiosity, 
Philip  took  the  witness-stand.  He  was  dimly 
conscious  of  it,  of  the  faces  of  friends  and  neigh- 
bors in  Santa  Rita,  and  of  business  acquaintances 
in  Los  Angeles.  And  somewhere  in  the  back- 
ground, he  saw  the  rugged  face  of  Father  John, 


310      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

full  of  solicitude  and  trouble.  His  heart  warmed 
to  the  priest,  and  he  felt  his  presence  like  a  strong 
tower  of  defense.  He  saw  Sheelah,  and  the  glint 
of  her  eyes  was  that  of  a  watchful  foe.  And  be- 
side her  he  saw  his  child,  the  central  thread  of  all 
this  tangle.  Last  of  all  he  saw  Mary,  effacing 
herself  as  much  as  possible  against  the  wall.  The 
quiet  tones  of  her  dull  blue  dress  contrasted 
with  the  rich  costume  of  her  rival,  as  her  shrink- 
ing demeanor  was  the  antithesis  of  Sheelah 
Delayne's  self-assertion.  He  guessed  the  look 
of  the  blue  eyes  behind  the  veil  and  summoned 
all  his  fortitude  to  answer  his  lawyer's  ques- 
tions. 

"Was  there  ever  any  intention  on  the  part  of 
either  you  or  Miss  Delayne  to  enter  into  the  mar- 
riage relationship?" 

"Absolutely  none." 

"Did  you  ever  ask  her  to  marry  you?" 

1 1 1  may  have  done  so.  It  is  so  long  ago,  I  don 't 
remember. ' ' 

"You  did  live  with  her?" 

The  question  was  obnoxious  to  Philip.  After 
a  slight  pause  he  replied :  '  *  She  has  herself  said 
so." 

"You  did  not  regard  her  as  your  wife  nor  de- 
ceive her  concerning  the  relationship  between 
you  ? ' ' 

' '  Most  emphatically,  I  did  not. ' ' 

"So  that,  even  if  you  had  promised  to  marry 
her,  the  promise  was  never  fulfilled?" 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      311 

"I  do  not  think  I  ever  even  promised,  but  if  I 
did,  the  promise  was  certainly  never  fulfilled." 

"And  you  never  gave  her  any  ring  such  as  she 
has  spoken  of  in  lieu  of  a  wedding-ring!" 

"  Never." 

'  *  Thank  you.    That  is  all. ' ' 

Mr.  Merrill  sat  down,  and  the  prosecuting  at- 
torney confronted  Philip  with  a  stern  face. 

"Your  remembrance  and  lack  of  remembrance 
is  very  convenient,  Mr.  Carmichael.  You  do  not 
recall  trying  to  obtain  a  marriage  license  in  any 
town  in  New  England  ? ' ' 

1  'I  do  not  recall  it,  for  I  never  did  it,"  an- 
swered Philip  simply. 

"Did  you  never  promise  to  marry  Miss  De- 
la  yne?" 

"I  do  not  remember." 

"But  you  remember  registering  her  as  Mrs. 
Carmichael  at  the  hotel  in  New  York?"  He 
opened  the  hotel  guest-book  and  showed  Philip 
an  entry. 

"That  is  my  writing,"  Philip  answered. 

"Ah!  You  acknowledge  that!  You  were  not 
aware  that  that  constituted  a  claim  for  common- 
law  marriage?" 

"I  was  not  aware  of  it,  or  I  would  not  have 
done  it." 

"But  you  did  introduce  the  young  girl  as  your 
wife." 

"Only  in  fun;  it  was  all  a  joke." 

"A  very  grim  joke!"  almost  shouted  the  prose- 


312      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

cutor,  and  proceeded  with  his  rapid-fire  questions 
as  he  had  with  Ben.  "You  did  introduce  her  as 
your  wife — " 

"Yes." 

"And  did  live  with  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Thus  doing  her  irreparable  injury  and  spoil- 
ing her  chances  for  making  any  other  marriage! 
You  did  finally  abandon  her?" 

"I  returned  to  my  home  when  the  college  term 
was  over." 

"You  left  her  with  an  unborn  child?" 

"I  knew  nothing  of  the  child." 

"Had  you  known,  would  you  have  regarded 
your  tie  as  binding?" 

It  was  another  crucial  moment.  Philip  felt 
the  strain  of  it  and  showed  it.  Also  he  saw  the 
boy's  eyes  fixed  on  him.  They  were  full  of  the 
clear  and  terrible  understanding  which  makes  old 
a  young  face. 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  prosecutor,  in  a  hector- 
ing manner  of  impatience,  "answer  the  question. 
Would  you  have  considered  the  tie  a  binding  one, 
if  you  had  known  about  the  child?" 

"Of  course."    Philip's  answer  came  low. 

"Ah!  Now  in  regard  to  this  ring.  It  is 
yours  ? ' ' 

"It  is  mine." 

"Did  you  give  it  to  Miss  Delayne  instead  of  a 
wedding-ring  ? ' ' 

"I  did  not  give  it  to  her  at  all." 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       313 

"How  does  it  come  in  her  possession?" 

"I  can  only  surmise  that  I  lost  it  or  left  it  be- 
hind, and  that  she  found  it." 

"We  will  leave  the  question  of  the  ring  for  the 
moment.  In  regard  to  the  child:  are  you  willing 
to  acknowledge  him  and  be  responsible  for  his 
support  and  education?" 

"Yes."  The  answer  came  quietly  and  without 
hesitation. 

"Good.  Now,  Mr.  Carmichael,  you  have  ac- 
knowledged point  by  point  nearly  all  of  Miss 
Delayne  's  evidence.  You  have  admitted  that  you 
introduced  her  as  your  wife,  registered  her  as 
such,  and  lived  with  her  as  such.  You  have  even 
acknowledged  the  child.  With  all  this,  what  pre- 
vents you  from  acknowledging  the  plaintiff  as 
your  true  and  lawful  wtfe?" 

Philip  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  "Why, 
I  never  intended  to  marry  her,"  he  said. 

He  left  the  witness-stand  feeling  like  a  beaten 
man.  The  nerves  of  his  mind,  as  it  were,  lay  bare 
to  the  hurting  thoughts  of  all  about  him.  It  had 
been  a  frightful  ordeal — the  exposure  of  such  a 
poor,  soiled  chapter  in  his  life.  No  one  there,  he 
felt,  but  believed  him  guilty  of  duplicity.  The 
wrong  done  to  the  young  girl,  Sheelah,  seemed 
a  small  thing  compared  to  the  case  they  were  mak- 
ing out  against  him — the  wilful  deception  of  two 
women.  They  were  actually  proving  a  marriage 
which  had  never  been  a  marriage,  and  the  proof 
would  be  based  upon  the  untrue  statement  about 


314      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

the  wedding-ring.  He  wondered,  if  they  suc- 
ceeded in  proving  him  guilty  in  law,  what  the 
consequences  would  be?  Prison,  probably,  for  a 
term  of  years!  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
thought  of  it  concretely.  It  had  not  occurred  to 
him  before  that  a  man  could  be  proved  guilty  in 
law  of  a  thing  of  which  he  was  actually  innocent. 
Scarcely  a  soul  there,  he  felt,  would  believe  in 
his  innocence,  except  Ben — and  Father  John — and 
Mary.  It  was  wonderful  how  he  knew  that  she 
would  understand,  that  she  would  never  fail  him. 

They  were  calling  her  to  the  witness-stand. 
Philip  had  a  moment  of  anguish  when  he  saw  the 
look  of  her  face.  It  was  so  full  of  dread,  of  be- 
wilderment. The  place,  the  situation,  the  part 
she  must  perforce  play  in  it,  was  so  utterly 
foreign  to  her.  Why  did  his  imagination  revert 
to  pictures  of  her  as  she  had  been  in  England, 
when  he  had  first  known  her!  He  saw  her  gay 
assurance  there,  her  buoyant  kindness,  her  merry 
good-fellowship;  he  felt  the  old  Duke's  delight 
in  her,  the  old  Duchess'  pride,  Lady  Kitty's  af- 
fection. And  beside  those  pictures  he  must  put 
now — this  shrinking  woman.  He  had  brought 
her  to  this!  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  groaned. 
But  as  no  one  appeared  to  have  heard,  he  realized, 
startled,  that  he  had  only  dreamed  the  groan  in 
the  travail  of  his  spirit. 

"Your  name?" 

"Mary  Carmichael."  Her  tone  was  so  low 
that  she  was  requested  to  raise  her  voice.  The 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      315 

silence  in  the  room  was  intense,  as  all  leaned  for- 
ward with  interest  or  curiosity  or  pity.  The  dull 
blue  dress  she  wore  seemed  to  add  to  her  pallor, 
as  did  the  white  veil  which  she  was  asked  to  raise. 
It  fell  softly  over  her  shoulders,  like  the  drapery 
about  the  head  of  a  pictured  Madonna,  and  like 
the  Madonna's,  too,  were  her  eyes.  Mr.  Merrill's 
manner  was  full  of  kindly  reassurance  as  he  ad- 
dressed her. 

"How  long  have  you  been  married  to  Mr.  Car- 
michael?"  was  his  first  question. 

She  heard  the  question  through  a  maze  of  con- 
flicting thoughts.  The  faces  in  the  courtroom 
seemed  floating  before  her  eyes. 

"This  is  the  third  spring,"  she  answered. 
"We  have  been  together  two  years  and  a  half." 

"Had  you  never  heard  Mr.  Carmichael  speak 
of  Sheelah  Delayne?" 

"Never." 

"Had  you,  at  any  time  prior  to  this  matter  be- 
coming public,  any  knowledge  that  Mr.  Car- 
michael was  not  free  to  marry  you?" 

"Why— no." 

"By  the  way,  all  records  of  your  marriage  were 
lost  in  the  San  Francisco  fire,  were  they  not?" 

"I  can't  answer,"  Mary  said.  "I  have  never 
seen  the  records. ' ' 

Through  her  mind  was  going  an  insane  sing- 
song: "What  shall  I  do — oh,  what  shall  I  do,  to 
save  him?  What  shall  I  do — oh,  what  shall  I  do, 
to  save  him?"  And  suddenly,  like  a  blinding 


316      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

flash  of  light,  came  the  answer.  She  saw  what 
she  must  do.  The  thought  shot  her  to  her  feet 
for  a  trembling  instant,  then  she  sank  back  and 
closed  her  eyes  in  intense  concentration.  In  the 
dark,  behind  the  shut  lids,  she  looked,  as  in  a  mir- 
ror, into  the  grieving  eyes  of  her  soul.  Hut  the 
mirror  was  larger.  It  was  Love. 

Much  puzzled  by  her  extraordinary  behavior, 
Mr.  Merrill  turned  to  confer  with  his  client,  and 
the  prosecutor  took  up  his  cross-examination. 

4 'You  have,  surely,  some  other  proof  of  your 
marriage  besides  the  record  which  was  lost? 
You  have  a  copy  of  the  certificate,  for  instance?" 

And  very  distinctly  came  her  answer, 

"There  are  no  proofs." 

"No  proofs!" 

"No,  for  there  was  no  marriage." 

There  was  amazement  in  the  room.  Even  the 
lawyer  seemed  dumbfounded. 

"No  marriage!  But — why — here  is  the  news- 
paper notice  of  it ! " 

"That  is  not  a  proof,"  answered  Mary  calmly. 

The  jurymen  were  all  craning  forward  in  their 
seats.  The  judge's  gaze  was  searching  her  face. 
The  spectators  were  spellbound.  Mary  was 
dimly  conscious  of  Ben's  astonishment,  of 
Philip's  consternation,  deepening  into  horror  as 
he  began  to  realize  her  purpose.  Scarcely  know- 
ing how  to  continue,  the  prosecutor  put  his  ques- 
tions : 

"You  were  never  married  to  this  man?" 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      317 

"No." 

"You  went  through  no  form  of  ceremony  which 
constitutes  a  marriage?" 

"No." 

"But  you  have  lived  with  him!" 

"Yes." 

"As  his  wife?" 

"Yes." 

Each  time  the  monosyllabic  answer  fell  with  an 
accent  of  finality. 

"You  say,"  the  attorney  continued,  quite  non- 
plussed at  the  unexpected  turn  of  things,  "you 
say  that  you  lived  with  Mr.  Cannichael  as  his 
wife,  you  were  introduced  as  such,  yet  you  do  not 
regard  yourself  as  his  wife  ? ' ' 

"I  do  not." 

"But  people  believe  you  to  be  Mrs.  Carmichael 
— your  guest,  Mr.  Baldwin,  for  instance.  He 
says  you  spoke  of  your  marriage  to  him. ' ' 

"Naturally,  I  let  him  believe  in  it,"  she  an- 
swered with  difficulty. 

In  Mary's  heart  the  hunger  of  days  and  weeks 
past  was  stabbing  like  sharp  pain.  Her  denial 
of  her  marriage  was  done  in  a  moment  of  self- 
less inspiration,  and  she  rather  looked  to  see 
Philip  rise  and  vehemently  protest  her  statement, 
and  uphold  her  honor  even  at  the  expense  of  his 
own.  "When  he  did  not,  when  she  saw  by  his 
silence  that  he  meant  to  accept  this,  her  last  sac- 
rifice for  him,  a  despair  was  born  in  her.  She 
concluded  that  love,  as  she  knew  it,  he  had  never 


318      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

felt  for  her,  that  her  whole  life  with  him  had  been 
in  vain — a  terrible  mistake.  Mentally,  with  a 
violent  wrench  of  the  spirit,  she  renounced  her 
own  happiness — laid  it  down  then  and  there,  a 
pitiful  offering  of  passion  and  tears,  to  the  God 
of  Higher  Things. 

But,  actually,  Philip's  love  for  her,  the  real 
love  that  kindled  and  liberated  his  spirit,  was  just 
being  born.  He  was  seeing  for  the  first  time  her 
soul — and  his  own — and  the  right  relationship  of 
things.  The  greatness  of  her  sacrifice,  the  giving 
up  of  the  most  precious  of  all  things  in  the  world 
to  a  wife — her  married  honor — staggered  him.  It 
passed  belief — such  love;  it  belonged  to  the 
realm  of  impossible,  miraculous  things.  He  re- 
membered how,  long  ago  in  England,  she  had  said 
proudly : 

"I  don't  love  any  man  well  enough  to  sin  for 
him!"  And  here  she  was,  now,  committing  the 
grave  sin  of  perjury  for  his  sake.  Thflt  was  what 
held  him  silent.  He  knew  it  was  a  punishable  of- 
fense. But  in  his  inner  nature,  he  was  worshipr 
ping  her — not  the  thing  she  had  done  for  him,  but 
the  motive  which  had  inspired  it.  He  saw  her  as 
she  was  in  one  fine,  great  moment.  So  that,  when 
she  thought  she  gave  up  all,  she  really  gained  all. 
Though  she  knew  it  not,  her  whole  heart's  de- 
sire began  to  set  toward  her  in  a  strong,  return- 
ing tide. 

The  prosecutor  continued  his  cross-examina- 
tion. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       319 

"If  you  were  introduced  as  Mr.  Carmichael's 
wife  and  lived  with  him  as  such,  yours  is  as  much 
a  common-law  marriage  as  the  first,  is  it  not  ? ' ' 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

She  braced  herself  for  her  climax,  steadfastly. 

"I  have  heard  his  Honor  say  that  common-law 
marriage  depends  partly  upon  intention.  Mr. 
Carmichael  never  promised  to  marry  me.  We 
just  agreed  between  ourselves  to  live  together." 

The  simple  statement  sounded  so  impossible, 
coming  from  a  woman  of  her  character  and  dig- 
nity, that  the  prosecutor  was  aghast. 

"Think  what  you  are  saying,  Madam,"  he  said 
earnestly.  "If  you  are  trying  to  protect  Mr. 
Carmichael,  think  well  what  you  are  doing! 
You  are  swearing  away  your  honor,  your  married 
honor,  your  good  name  and  position  in  our  com- 
monwealth. If  you  are  not  his  wife,  what  are 
you?" 

Mary's  eyes  looked  past  him  until  they  found 
Philip.  Her  face  and  voice  had  a  grave  beauty. 

"I'm — just  the  woman  who  loves  him,"  she 
said  simply. 

The  prosecutor  looked  incredulous.  "You 
have  no  other  claim  than  that  ? ' ' 

' '  None,  whatever. ' ' 

The  watchmen  that  went  about  the  city  in- 
terpreting its  laws  had  indeed  smitten  her.  The 
keepers  of  the  walls  of  modern  society  had  taken 
away  her  veil.  It  was  torn  and  rent — that  mar- 


320      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

riage-veil — but  through  its  shreds  the  sacred 
mystery  stood  revealed,  the  transfiguring,  human 
love  which  in  its  selflessness  blended  with  the  di- 
vine. Her  look  was  luminous.  "Terrible  as  an 
army  with  banners,"  it  swept  over  Philip,  and 
all  his  own  forces  went  down  before  it. 

Mr.  Merrill,  with  a  triumphant  smile,  arose  and 
called  for  a  dismissal  of  the  case.  The  conclu- 
sion had  been  utterly  unforeseen  and  indeed  un- 
premeditated, but  he  was  quick  to  seize  the  ad- 
vantage for  his  client.  The  judge  asked  if  the 
prosecutor  could  supply  any  evidence  of  the  sec- 
ond marriage  to  Lady  Mary  Stanhope T  When 
none  was  forthcoming,  he  called  upon  the  jury  to 
rise. 

"I  instruct  you,"  he  said,  "to  acquit  the  pris- 
oner, Philip  Carmichael,  of  the  charge  against 
him." 


CHAPTER  IX 

"Withal  there  is  one  whom  I  fear; 
I  fear  to  see  grief  upon  that  face. 
Perchance,  Friend,  he  is  not  your  God; 
If  so  spit  upon  him. 
By  it  you  will  do  no  profanity. 
But  I  .  .  . 

Ah,  sooner  would  I  die 
Than  see  tears  in  those  eyes  of  my  soul" 

STEPHEN  CRANE. 

WHEN  Mary  left  the  courtroom,  she  suc- 
ceeded in  eluding  even  Ben.    Without 
one  backward  glance,  without  turning  to 
right  or  left,  silently  and  swiftly,  she  escaped 
from  the  place.    Once  outside,  she  never  stopped 
until  she  was  on  the  train  for  Santa  Eita.    She 
knew  her  time  was  short  for  what  she  meant  to 
do,  and  she  wasted  none  of  it. 

When  she  reached  the  gate  of  their  little  house 
in  Santa  Eita,  a  crowding  host  of  memories  and 
glad  moments  almost  overcame  her  with  the  sense 
of  what  her  renunciation  meant.  The  garden  was 
beautiful  with  its  spring  jubilance  of  song  and 
scent  and  color.  Gay  hands  of  flower-trees 
reached  out  to  her,  little  low  flowers  smiled  up 
from  the  ground,  great  bushes  of  blossom  burst 
on  her  like  bells  rung  on  a  quiet  Sabbath  morn- 
ing. Darting  birds  filled  the  air  with  happy  notes, 
and  the  beneficent  sun  looked  down  with  a 


322      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

fathering  eye  upon  his  frolicking  garden-children. 
Conscious,  but  regardless  of  the  beauty  of  it  all, 
she  sped  up  the  little  path,  over  the  lawn,  to  the 
house.  There,  just  for  a  moment,  her  heart 
failed  her.  Almost  overgrown  with  the  passion- 
flower vine,  the  words  "El  Tejado  Querido" 
stood  out  among  the  blossoms.  The  old  Spanish 
name,  "The  Beloved  Roof,"  with  all  its  associa- 
tions of  tenderness  and  work,  started  the  sobs  in 
her  throat.  But  she  crushed  them  back  and  en- 
tered. There  was  no  one  within.  Old  Mac- 
Gregor,  she  knew,  would  be  busy  about  the  place 
at  that  hour,  and  the  house  would  be  alone.  She 
wasted  not  one  movement  nor  moment  in  carry- 
ing out  her  plan.  Her  first  action  was  to  go  to 
the  drawer  of  her  writing-table  and  take  from  it 
the  copy  of  her  marriage  certificate.  This  she  lit 
at  one  corner  and  threw  into  the  grate.  -When: 
not  a  vestige  of  it  remained  but  the  blackened 
paper,  she  drew  off  her  wedding  ring,  kissed  it 
with  tears,  and  laid  it  on  the  mantel.  It  fell  into 
its  two  circles  which,  though  separate,  could  not 
get  apart.  The  symbolism  of  this  struck  her  for  a 
second,  then  she  dashed  the  tears  away  and  went 
on  to  her  bedroom,  where  she  packed  a  few  neces- 
sary clothes  and  such  valuables  and  money  as  she 
possessed.  Her  haste  was  extreme.  Last  of  all, 
she  wrote : 

11  Philip — Beloved — there's    no    other    way — I 
must  go.    Don't  follow  me,  don't  try  to  find  me. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       323 

I  couldn't  bear  it  if  you  did,  and  I  must  bear  it, 
alone.  Good-by — and  God  love  you — as  I  shall — 
always. 

Your 
MAEY.  ' ' 

Then,  still  with  deft,  swift  movements,  she 
flung  the  harness  on  the  old  horse,  lifted  her 
heavy  bag  into  the  buggy,  and  drove  fast  down 
the  road  to  the  station  beyond  Santa  Bita.  So 
great  had  been  her  fear  of  Ben  or  Philip  return- 
ing before  she  could  get  away,  so  tremendous  had 
been  her  concentration  of  haste  and  effort,  that 
she  was  shaking  as  she  took  up  the  reins  and 
realized  that  so  far  she  was  safe.  She  had  no 
definite  plan,  but  she  began  to  form  one  as  she 
drove.  She  would  leave  the  horse  at  the  station 
and  pay  the  station-master  to  return  it.  Then 
she  would  take  the  train  for  Los  Angeles  and 
from  there  go  to  San  Francisco  at  once,  or  per- 
haps to  New  York.  The  main  thing  was  to  escape 
from  Philip,  for  she  could  not  trust  herself 
and  her  love  of  him.  She  knew  that  if  she  were 
to  meet  him,  she  could  not  do  the  thing  which  she 
was  doing.  His  dominating  personality  would 
override  her  conscience,  her  honor,  her  very  soul. 
She  knew  his  importunity.  She  could  not  stay 
and  fight  it ;  she  could  only  fly  from  it  as  the  great 
temptation  of  her  life. 

In  the  train  for  Los  Angeles,  she  looked  back 
over  past  events  and  saw,  with  clear,  sad  eyes, 


324      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

that  Philip — and  her  love  for  him — had  been  just 
that — the  great  temptation  of  her  life.  It  had 
separated  her  from  God  instead  of  uniting  her  to 
Him.  While  she  had  the  big  human  love  and 
could  give  it  manifold  and  beautiful  expression, 
she  had  not  needed  the  divine.  Now  how  she 
longed  for  the  divine  healing  and  compassion— 
the  sense  of  God,  like  a  mother,  coming  quick  to 
the  need  of  His  child.  The  need  was  so  keen,  the 
cry  of  it  so  piteous — though  she  neither  spoke  nor 
moved,  nor,  as  yet,  even  prayed — that  He  who 
knows,  He  who  cares,  was  rushing  assistance  to 
her  with  every  turn  of  the  wheels  which  brought 
her  nearer  to  Los  Angeles. 

For  in  the  station,  while  she  was  trying  to 
wrench  some  decision  from  her  mind,  she  sud- 
denly came  upon  Father  John. 

She  would  gladly  have  avoided  him,  but  he  had 
seen  her  and  came  quickly  toward  her.  He  looked 
troubled  and  anxious,  but  his  face  cleared  as  he 
caught  sight  of  her. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  have  met  you,"  he  said  thank- 
fully, as  he  took  her  hand,  "for  I  was  thinking  of 
you  that  moment,  wondering — "  he  hesitated. 

"I'm  wondering,  too,"  Mary  answered,  trying 
to  smile,  "wondering  where  I'm  going,  now." 

"Are  you  in  a  hurry T  If  not,  will  you  talk  to 
me  a  moment!" 

He  took  her  bag,  and  they  found  a  quiet  cor- 
ner and  sat  down.  Father  John  looked  at  the 
clock. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      325 

"The  next  train  for  Santa  Rita  leaves  in  half 
an  hour.  I  have  to  get  it.  Are  you  returning, 
also?" 

"No,  Father. " 

"Will  you  tell  me  your  purpose,  my  daughter? 
You  see  I  was  there,  and  I'm  not  surprised  to 
find  you  like  this.  If  I  can  help  you,  let  me!" 
His  tone  was  pleading,  the  whole  big,  rugged  ex- 
terior seemed  trying  to  express  his  concern,  his 
sympathy.  Mary's  lips  trembled  a  little. 

"You  were  there?" 

"Yes,  I  heard  it  all." 

"You  heard  me — lie.    But  what  could  I  do?" 

"What  made  you  do  it?"  asked  the  priest 
gently. 

"Why — to  save  my  husband.  They  would 
have  sent  him  to  prison ;  they  would  have  proved 
a  lie  against  him." 

"I  do  not  think  the  dismissing  of  the  case 
proved  the  first  marriage,"  answered  Father 
John. 

"Surely  it  did!" 

"And  it  was  no  marriage,"  he  continued. 

"As  much  so  as  mine,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law," 
she  replied. 

Father  John  sat  pondering  the  question  in  deep 
distress.  Finally  he  spoke  gently. 

"I  have  never  known  a  lie  to  prosper,  however 
fine  its  motive.  This  one  may  have  terrible  con- 
sequences for  you,  my  daughter. ' ' 

"I  know,"  she  answered  steadfastly;  "I  must 


326      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

bear  them."    She  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment 
and  then  said: 

1  'In  a  sense,  perhaps,  it  wasn't  a  lie.  Of  course 
it  was  perjury,"  she  added  quickly,  meeting  his 
grave  look  squarely.  "But  was  it  a  lie  to  say  I 
do  not  consider  myself  Philip  Carmichael's  wife! 
In  view  of  all  that  has  happened — the  claim  of 
the  woman  who  gave  him  a  child — such  a  wonder- 
ful child! — I  do  not  any  longer  feel  myself  his 
wife.  That  is  why  I  am  going  away.  Don't  you 
see  I  must!  I  couldn't  go  on  living  with  him 
with  this  between  us,  even  if  the  Church  as  well 
as  the  law  had  married  us." 

"The  Church  would  consider  your  marriage 
binding,  even  though  she  did  not  perform  the  cere- 
mony. You  are  both  her  children.  The  other 
was  no  marriage." 

"I  know,  oh,  I  know  that,  of  course.  But  hav- 
ing entered  into  that  relationship,  he  had  no  right 
to  contract  a  marriage.  He  had  a  duty  to  the 
previous  bond ;  and  if  I  stayed,  I  might  come  be- 
tween— since  the  child's  own  mother  is  living." 

"But  what  of  your  duty  toward  your  hus- 
band?" the  priest  asked  gravely. 

She  pressed  her  palms  together  tensely,  as  if 
to  hold  down  her  tremendous  feeling. 

"I  must  lay  down  my  duty  to  him  with  my  right 
to  wifehood.  Father,  it  may  be  wrong  or  not.  I 
don't  know.  But  I  can't  see  it  any  other  way. 
He  wasn't  free  to  marry  me,  and  I  stand  between 
him — and  what  is  right  for  him  to  do.  I  must  lay 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       327 

down  my  claim,  leave  him  free  to  do  what  is 
right — by  them.  Terhaps  our  marriage  can  be 
annulled,  if  that  is  necessary.  I  shall  always  con- 
sider it  binding  on  me.  But  he — oh,  he  won't  un- 
derstand!" Her  voice  broke,  and  she  turned  to 
the  priest  beseechingly.  * l  Father,  could  you  make 
him  understand?  He  may  think  I  am  going  be- 
cause I  don't  forgive  him — don't  love  him,  and 
really  it's  because  I  do — both!  When  I'm  quite 
gone,  could  you  tell  him,  sometime,  that  I  did  it 
because  I  loved  him — not  for  any  other  reason  in 
the  world?" 

Father  John's  eyes  behind  his  glasses  were 
moist. 

"I'll  do  my  best  for  you  and  for  him,"  he  said. 
"But  now,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

The  question  brought  back  her  indecision,  and 
an  overwhelming  sense  of  homelessness  oppressed 
her. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "I  must  go  some- 
where to  be  alone — and  think  and  plan  where  no 
one  knows  me — and  I  must  find  some  work,  I  sup- 
pose." 

The  priest  sat  thoughtful  and  troubled.  The 
extraordinary  conditions  of  the  case,  the  gravity 
of  the  issues  involved,  obscured  for  the  time  even 
his  sure  sense  of  right  and  wrong.  But  soon  his 
face  cleared. 

"When  pne  is  puzzled,"  he  said,  "there  is  only 
one  thing  to  do:  ask  the  guidance  of  the  Holy 
Spirit  and  yield  one's  self  to  it  with  faith.  How 


328      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

would  you  like  to  go  to  the  Sisters'  convent  for 
a  time,  my  daughter?  You  would  be  in  retreat, 
and  in  peace  and  quietness  you  could  get  your 
bearings  and  mark  out  your  course." 

Mary's  face  had  brightened,  also. 

"That  is  what  I  will  do,"  she  said  earnestly. 
"Can  I  start  now 7" 

"I'll  telegraph  for  you  and  put  you  on  the 
train,"  Father  John  answered,  a  great  relief  in 
his  heart. 

"And  you'll  not  tell  my  husband!  Because, 
you  see,  he  would  only  come  after  me  and  make 
it  all  the  harder.  I  cannot  tell  what  the  solution 
of  it  all  will  be,"  she  went  on,  her  voice  trembling 
with  the  heartbreak  behind  it.  "But,  oh,  I  know 
I  am  right  so  far! — in  going  away,  I  mean.  We 
must  work  out  our  salvation  separately." 

"Each  of  us  must  do  that." 

When  he  had  sent  the  telegram  and  bought  her 
ticket  for  her,  he  walked  with  her  to  the  train.  As 
they  shook  hands  at  parting,  Mary  looked  up  at 
him  with  gratitude.  "I  can't  thank  you  for  your 
interest,  your  kindness — " 

"Never  mind,"  he  said  hastily,  "You  can't 
know  what  a  priest  feels  for  every  member  of  his 
family — each  a  separate  trust  from  God.  It  is  so 
good  if  one  can  fulfil  any  of  it — be  of  use  to  any 
one.  I  feel  like  thanking  them  for  letting  me  serve 
Him  so.  Good-by,  my  child.  Keep  in  touch  with 
me.  I  shall  pray  for  you." 

' '  Good-by,  dear  Father. '  * 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      329 

And  Mary,  as  the  train  bore  her  farther  away 
from  the  center  of  all  her  love  and  life,  faced  the 
future,  in  spite  of  her  desolation,  with  a  com- 
forted heart.  The  strong,  invisible  hand  of  the 
Church  had  given  her  help  in  her  need.  The  in- 
visible strength  of  the  Spirit  would  support  her  in 
whatever  followed.  As  it  ever  had  been,  and  ever 
would  be  in  all  her  crises  of  experience,  she  felt 
the  enfolding  of  the  everlasting  arms  —  and 
leaned  back  hard  on  the  love  of  God. 

Philip  and  Ben  came  home  together  after  the 
trial  was  over.  When  they  reached  the  little 
house  in  Santa  Rita,  Ben  lingered  in  the  garden, 
leaving  Philip  to  enter  and  meet  Mary  first  alone. 
And  just  as  she  had  done  an  hour  earlier,  Philip, 
too,  passed  under  the  name  "El  Tejado  Querido" 
with  a  tightening  of  the  throat.  Poignant  mem- 
ories of  precious  hours  in  her  love  and  faith 
came  crowding  upon  him,  and  his  whole  soul 
longed  to  compensate  to  her  a  thousandfold  for 
her  sacrifice  to  him.  His  heart  was  on  its  knees 
to  her  as  he  cried  her  name  in  the  silence  of  the 
deserted  home. 

"Mary!"  and  when  no  answer  came,  "My 
Mary!"  more  urgently,  more  longingly. 

And  then  the  silence  began  to  smite  him  with 
foreboding. 

He  ran  up-stairs  to  their  bedroom  and  found 
it  out  of  its  usual  order ;  the  wardrobe  seemed  al- 
most empty;  her  little  box  on  the  dressing-table 
where  she  kept  her  trinkets  stood  open,  its  treas- 


330       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

ures  gone.  For  an  instant,  the  possibility  of 
thieves  crossed  his  mind,  but  the  idea  received 
no  sanction  from  his  deeper  consciousness.  He 
went  down-stairs  again,  fighting  against  a  grow- 
ing certainty.  And  in  the  living-room  he  found 
her  wedding-ring  and  her  note,  and  as  he  sank 
down  on  the  settle  beside  the  hearth,  he  saw  the 
blackened  ash  that  had  been  the  white  paper  of 
their  marriage  certificate. 

When  Ben  came  in,  a  few  minutes  later,  he 
found  him  sitting  so,  the  note  in  one  hand,  the  two 
entwined  circles  of  gold  in  the  other,  Philip  him- 
self blind  and  dazed  with  grief. 

"She's  gone,"  was  all  he  said. 

"Gone!"  Ben's  mind  grasped  it  instantly.  Of 
course  that  was  just  what  Mary  would  do.  Why 
had  he  not  foreseen  it  in  time  to  prevent  itt  That 
was  why  she  had  not  returned  to  her  seat  beside 
him  when  she  left  the  witness-stand,  but  instead 
had  passed  straight  out  of  the  courtroom.  Ben 
had  been  too  occupied  with  Philip  at  the  moment 
to  notice  it,  but  now  he  remembered  that  Mary 
had  not  once  hesitated  or  turned  her  head.  She 
must  have  conceived  her  whole  plan  in  one  instant 
and  have  carried  it  out,  so  far,  unfalteringly. 
Before  such  swift  decision  he  stood  marvelling, 
and  the  next  moment  his  heart  quailed  at  what  he, 
even  then,  felt  would  be  his  friend's  irrecoverable 
loss. 

"Where  can  she  have  gone?"  he  said. 

"Why  should  she  go?"  asked  Philip. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       331 

" Because — don't  you  see?  She  feels  she  is  no 
longer  your  wife. '  * 

"But  she  is!" 

''Of  course.  But  it  was  not  proved,  and  she 
denied  it  herself.  You  accepted  her  denial. ' ' 

' '  Good  God ! "  burst  from  Philip.  '  <  If  I  hadn  't, 
she  would  have  been  convicted  of  perjury!" 

1  'Yes,  I  know.  It  was  perjury,  and  it  was  mag- 
nificent !  But  it's  wrecked  her,  Phil. ' ' 

Philip,  on  the  low  settle  by  the  hearth,  sat  with 
his  head  hidden  in  his  hands.  He  did  not  answer 
or  look  up.  Ben  continued: 

"It  is  just  possible  that  Mary  imagined  there 
was  a  previous  marriage,  or  that  there  ought  to 
have  been,  and  that  she  stands  between  you  and 
an  obvious  duty." 

"The  child  you  mean?    Yes." 

"And  the  child's  mother." 

"No!"  said  Philip  strongly.  "No!  That's 
past — twelve  years  ago.  If  she  had  made  her 
claim  then — but  now! — it's  too  late.  I've  only 
one  real  duty  in  the  world  and  that's  to  Mary. 
If  I  can  only  find  her ! ' '  He  dropped  back  to  his 
first  position,  elbows  on  knees,  head  bowed  into 
his  hands. 

"She'd  go  to  the  Duke,"  suggested  Ben,  "or, 
perhaps,  first  to  Jessie.  You'll  find  her — never 
fear."  As  he  spoke,  more  to  cheer  Philip  than 
because  he  really  believed  it,  he  looked  at  his 
friend  curiously.  For  once,  he  failed  to  under- 
stand him.  With  all  his  acute,  divining  sym- 


332      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

pathy,  Ben  could  not  guess  the  agony  of  shame, 
the  torture  of  fear,  that  beat  like  relentless  foes 
at  the  gate  of  Philip's  pride  of  heart.  Inevitably 
the  gate  must  go  down  before  them,  the  pride  be 
levelled,  and  the  invaders  ravage  the  territory 
they  conquered.  But  Ben  could  not  hear  the 
sound  of  their  blows.  He  looked  at  his  friend 
again  and  wondered.  Though  his  judgment  was 
tempered  by  pity,  still  it  was  judgment.  It  was 
even  condemnation.  In  spite  of  the  stout  stuff  of 
his  friendship  and  the  loyalty  with  which  it  was 
embroidered,  Ben  could  not  but  remember  the 
faces  of  the  two  women  who  had  loved  this  man, 
the  two  big  natures  which  had  given,  each  of  her 
best,  to  him — Sheelah,  the  enamored  passion  of 
her  youth ;  Mary,  the  stiller  love  of  her  maturity. 
And  both  in  vain,  Ben  thought,  looking  covertly  at 
Philip  in  the  silence  which  deepened  between 
them.  He  could  -not  know  that  Philip  felt  his 
thoughts  as  though  they  had  been  spoken,  that  he, 
too,  was  judging  and  appraising  himself  lower 
than  his  friend  would  ever  appraise  him.  Ben 
saw  a  fine  life  turned  to  failure,  its  gifts  lost,  its 
purposes  spoiled,  he  did  not  know  why.  Philip, 
thinking  deeper,  knew  and  writhed  upon  the  rack 
of  that  knowledge.  It  had  a  hundred  points;  it 
searched  out  every  hidden  sore,  every  secret  sin. 
It  tore  at  his  very  vitals  until  it  seemed  to  him  he 
must  shriek  with  the  agony  of  his  own  guilt. 
And  then  confession  gushed  out  of  him. 
"It  is  my  own  damned  selfishness  I "  The 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       333 

words  stained  the  air  for  a  moment,  and  vainly 
the  habit  of  reserve  tried  to  stop  the  flow  which 
poured  past  it. 

"My  God,  my  God!  When  I  think  of  it — from 
the  beginning!  It  was  myself  always;  always  I 
have  taken,  never  given.  Always  I  have  been 
loved,  never  loved;  always  I  have  had  the  lion's 
share,  coerced,  cajoled,  got  it  somehow — just  for 
myself!  At  home,  in  school,  at  work,  I  served 
myself  alone.  My  career  had  one  aim :  to  acquire 
prizes  for  Philip  Carmichael.  My  ambition  had 
one  end :  to  glorify  Philip  Carmichael.  And  then 
came  Mary — a  something  different — to  shed  new 
luster  on  Philip  Carmichael.  God!"  His  voice 
broke  under  the  stress  of  his  own  arraignment. 
"I've  been  like  an  actor  playing  to  the  gallery 
of  my  own  egotism ;  its  hoots  or  praises  have  been 
my  rule  of  life.  And  I  never  knew  it  until  to-day, 
until  she  did  that  stupendous  thing — that  awful 
—beautiful  thing!  Until  that  moment  I  thought 
it  was  I  who  had  made  the  sacrifices;  I  who  was 
paying  the  price  and  bearing  the  burden;  and 
then,  suddenly,  I  saw  it  had  been  hers  all  along. 
While  I  dreamed,  she  sewed  and  worked  and 
planted.  Look!  that's  her  garden;  these  are  her 
curtains;  this  chair  her  dear  hands  covered. 
While  I  repined  and  regretted  she  went  singing 
about  her  tasks.  And  all  the  while,  I  see  now,  I 
was  her  burden,  not  the  things  I  brought  her  to 
— though  they  were  enough,  God  knows — but  I, 
myself,  her  disappointment  in  me.  And  yet — 


334-      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

and  yet,"  his  voice  swelled  then  diminished  again, 
"she  could  do  that  tremendous  thing — out  of  her 
love.  Think  what  it  must  have  meant  to  her— 
to  stand  there  and  deny  her  honor!  Mary!  My 
God,  what  must  it  be  to  have  a  soul  like  that! 
And,  oh,  Ben,  where  shall  I  go — what  shall  I  do 
—how  shall  I  hide  from  myself?'* 

Ben  stood  appalled  before  the  uncovered  feel- 
ing of  the  man,  as  it  jolted  out  of  him  between 
unchecked  sobs.  Philip  was  far  past  self-con- 
sciousness now.  He  leaned  his  arms  upon  the 
mantelpiece,  his  head  bowed  upon  them.  He  was 
hearing  again  his  wife's  voice  in  the  utter  sweet- 
ness of  her  renunciation:  "I'm  just  the  woman 
who  loves  him. ' '  He  was  seeing  again  her  face — 
and  the  light  in  it — like  a  window  over  a  shrine. 
A  moment  in  the  still  space  between  storms  his 
vision  held  her,  and  he  knew  her  a  holy  thing, 
bearing  to  him  a  mysterious  message. 

And  then  he  became  conscious  that  Ben  was 
speaking,  had  been  speaking  for  several  minutes 
— kind,  staunch  old  Ben.  He  couldn't  understand 
what  he  was  saying;  it  was  a  long  way  off,  and 
didn't  matter.  But  in  the  great  deeps  of  him  a 
strange  thing  had  happened.  He  had  found 
Mary.  Something  of  her  had  flowed  toward  him. 
Something  of  him  had  gone  out  to  meet  it.  He 
knew  they  were  indissolubly  joined. 

"And  so,"  Ben  finished,  "perhaps  it  took  all 
this  to  bring  you  two  to  the  very  best.  Where  are 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       335 

you  going?"  for  Philip,  with  a  rapt  look,  was  put- 
ting on  his  hat  and  coat. 

*  *  To  find  her, ' '  he  answered. 

And  Ben  knew  he  had  not  heard  one  word. 


CHAPTER  X 

My  heart  is  a  homeless  beggar — 
A  house  with  the  blinds  all  down — 
A  nest  less  bird,  a  hope  deferred — 
A  monarch  without  a  crown. 

An  Adam  without  a  help-mate; 
A  grief  that  cannot  weep; 
A  barren  womb;  an  unmarked  tomb; 
A  sleeper  that  cannot  sleep. 

My  heart  is  a  homeless  beggar — 
/  weep — and  reap — and  weep. 

AUBREY  BOUCICAULT. 

BEFORE  Philip  had  gone  far  on  the  road 
to  the  station,  he  recognized  his  own 
horse  and  buggy  approaching,  driven  by 
a  lad  whom  he  did  not  know.  His  intuition  im- 
mediately connected  it  with  Mary,  and  he  stopped 
the  boy  and  inquired  what  he  was  doing  with  his 
horse. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Carmichael?"  the  boy  asked. 
"A  lady  left  this  team  with  my  father.  He's  the 
station-master." 

"Not  at  Santa  Rita?" 

"No,  Dominico — the  next  down  the  line.  She 
asked  my  father  to  return  it  to  Mr.  Carmichael. ' ' 

"How  long  ago?" 

"I  guess  it  was  about  two  hours.  She  left  on 
the  train  for  Los  Angeles." 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      837 

Philip  reflected  for  a  minute,  then  got  in  and 
drove  back  to  his  house  to  consult  with  Ben.  He 
found  him  busy  packing.  When  Philip  told  him, 
he  said: 

1 '  There 's  no  use  looking  for  her  in  Los  Angeles. 
She  will  probably  have  gone  to  my  sister.  Pack 
a  bag  and  come  with  me.  We  can  get  the  night 
train  out  of  Los  Angeles  for  Oakland  and  be  there 
in  the  morning.  I  think  you  will  find  Mary  there, 
and  you  can  then  bring  her  back  with  you." 

So  old  MacGregor  was  summoned  and  left  in 
charge  of  the  place.  Philip  little  thought  how 
long  it  would  be  before  he  returned. 

Mrs.  Dwight  met  them  at  the  station  in  Oak- 
land the  next  morning.  She  had  had  Ben's  tele- 
gram the  night  before  and  had  read  the  account 
of  the  case  in  the  morning  papers.  But  she  had 
no  news  of  Mary.  Her  delight  in  seeing  her 
brother  was  lost  in  her  quick  sympathy  at  the 
sight  of  Philip's  face. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Jess,  that  you  haven't 
had  a  telegram  or  any  sort  of  word  from  Mary?" 
Ben  asked,  when  their  first  greetings  were 
over. 

"No  word  of  any  sort." 

The  three  looked  at  one  another  in  consterna- 
tion. 

"Perhaps  she  sent  a  night  message  and  it  is  at 
the  house,  now,"  suggested  Ben. 

"I'll  telephone  and  find  out,"  replied  Mrs. 
Dwight  at  once.  But  telephoning  brought  no 


338      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

comfort.  Ah  Sin  answered,  saying  no  message 
had  come  for  Mrs.  Dwight  since  she  left  the  house. 

"Where  can  she  be!"  Ben  exclaimed. 

Jessie  looked  grave.  "Wherever  she  is,  I  don't 
think  she  means  to  be  found,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

But  Philip  heard.    "Yet  I'll  find  her!"  he  said. 

"Come  back  to  the  house  and  have  breakfast, 
and  we  '11  talk  it  over, ' '  the  little  woman  suggested 
kindly. 

Philip  thanked  her  and  refused.  "I  can't  rest 
or  eat  until  I  find  her,"  he  said.  "Since  she  isn't 
here,  I  must  look  for  her  elsewhere.  She  prob- 
ably took  the  Santa  Fe  out  of  Los  Angeles,  for 
the  east.  I'll  get  the  next  train  that  goes.  Per- 
haps I'll  overtake  her  in  Chicago.  If  not,  I'll  go 
on  to  New  York.  I'll  be  able  to  find  her  on  any 
ship  that  sails." 

"You  think  she  will  have  gone  back  to  Eng- 
land?" said  Mrs.  Dwight. 

"Since  she  isn't  with  you,  yes.  She  has  no 
other  close  ties  here.  I'm  sure  she'd  go  to  the 
Duke." 

They  secretly  doubted  it  but  forebore  to  say 
so.  Ben  did  everything  possible  for  his  friend, 
to  the  last.  A  train  happened  to  be  leaving  al- 
most at  once  for  the  east.  They  waited  and  saw 
Philip  aboard.  Ben  got  an  address  both  in 
Chicago  and  in  New  York,  to  which  he  could  tele- 
graph in  case  he  had  any  news. 

"And  you'll  let  us  know  if  you  find  out  any- 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       339 

thing,  won't  you?"  he  said  anxiously,  "or  if 
you're  sailing — 

Philip  was  preoccupied  as  he  shook  hands  with 
Mrs.  Dwight  and  said  good-by.  When  it  was 
Ben's  turn,  he  tried  to  thank  him.  But  no  words 
came. 

" Can't  get  it  out,"  he  said  at  last  jerkily. 
"But  you  know — don't  you!" 

Ben  nodded  without  speaking,  and  the  two 
grasped  hands.  Then  the  great  Overland  Limited 
started  on  its  long  journey.  Ben  and  Jessie 
turned  away,  rather  sick  at  heart. 

"It  doesn't  seem  long  since  I  went  down  to  meet 
the  Overland,  bringing  Mary  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Dwight.  "She  came  alone,  and  now  he's  going 
alone." 

Ben  answered,  his  practical  mind  following 
Philip's  needs.  "He  has  only  a  hand-bag  with 
him.  If  he  sails  at  once,  he  will  want  clothes. 
I'd  better  wire  MacGregor  to  pack  a  trunk  and 
send  it  on  to  the  New  York  address  he  gave  me." 

And  that  message  was  the  first  word  MacGregor 
had  of  the  indefinite  absence  of  his  master  and 
mistress.  The  old  man  packed  the  required 
things  sorrowfully.  He  came  upon  a  light  woolen 
dressing-gown  of  Mary's  and  put  that  in,  also. 
He  did  not  know  that  they  were  not  together,  and 
he  thought  she  might  need  it,  as  he  remembered 
it  was  colder  there  in  the  east.  His  packing  done, 
he  quietly  closed  the  door  of  the  room  that  had 
been  Philip's  and  Mary's  and  all  the  other  doors 


340       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

on  the  upper  landing.  Then  he  went  down-stairs, 
looked  into  the  living-room  forlornly,  and  softly 
drew  the  curtains,  shutting  out  the  sunlight. 

"Eh,  MacGregor,"  he  said,  as  he  closed  the 
door  of  that  room  also,  "ye 're  gettin'  auld  an* 
lonesome.  Yet  ye  were  never  lonesome  before 
they  came." 

He  went  limping  away  to  his  own  quarters,  and 
the  little  house  in  the  midst  of  the  blossoming 
garden  seemed  to  settle  down  and  wait. 

Philip  reached  New  York  and  made  the  rounds 
of  the  steamship  offices,  searching  every  pas- 
senger list  for  Mary's  name.  When  he  failed  to 
find  it,  he  could  not  believe  it  was  because  she  had 
not  sailed.  Rather,  he  concluded  she  had  booked 
passage  under  an  assumed  name,  on  one  of  the 
boats  which  had  left  the  Wednesday  before  he 
arrived  in  New  York.  On  that  assumption,  he  en- 
gaged passage  and  sailed  the  following  Saturday 
for  London. 

Many  times,  as  he  paced  the  decks  during  that 
voyage,  the  thought  of  his  previous  one  out  to 
America  offered  a  sharp  contrast.  Then  he  had 
been  going  to  his  love,  to  the  certainty  of  her  wel- 
coming eyes  and  arms,  to  splendid  hopes  and  ef- 
forts, and  a  lifetime  full  of  the  things  that  make 
for  happiness,  as  Mary  put  it  concretely:  "love 
and  work. ' '  He  had  been  tried  by  both  and  found 
wanting.  His  denunciation  of  himself  was  com- 
plete and  scathing.  He  had  not  known  himself 
or  his  right  relationship  to  the  world  in  which  he 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       341 

lived.  It  seemed  to  him,  in  his  bitter  self -arraign- 
ment, that  his  whole  life  had  been  one  evasion 
of  responsibility.  Love  had  come  easily,  he  had 
taken  it — more  than  once,  more  than  twice  or 
thrice.  Those  easy  loves  had  perhaps  borne  bitter 
fruit  in  the  lives  of  more  than  one  woman.  His 
heart  separated  Sheelah  and  Mary — the  first  and 
the  last — as  the  wheat  is  separated  from  the  chaff. 
One  had  given  him  a  child,  and  one  was  his  wife. 
It  seemed  to  his  suffering  mind  a  monstrous  thing 
that  they  should  not  have  been  one  and  the  same. 
The  boy  should  have  been  Mary's.  Strange,  he 
thought,  that  he  and  Mary,  who  belonged  to  each 
other,  should  both  have  undersold  their  birthright 
by  belonging  to  another  first.  The  years  of  youth, 
the  great  glad  years,  each  had  wasted,  he  wildly 
in  dissipation,  she  tamely  in  a  duty  which  she 
should  never  have  assumed.  In  the  hours  that 
Philip  paced  the  deck,  under  the  starlight,  these 
thoughts  became  audible  things  to  him.  He  saw 
that  not  only  in  his  own  heart  but  in  Mary's,  too, 
the  whisper  of  God  had  been  silenced  by  the 
clamor  of  the  world.  Dimly,  in  the  silence  of 
those  night  hours,  he  began  to  perceive  the  inner 
meaning  of  marriage  as  God  ordained  it,  the  in- 
finite promise  of  the  finite  thing.  Very  humbly 
he  began  to  pray  in  his  heart:  "Let  it  not  be 
too  late!" 

The  time  came  when  he  stood  before  the  Duke  in 
the  latter 's  library  and  read  in  his  eyes  before  his 
words  confirmed  it,  the  vainness  of  his  quest. 


342      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Perhaps  Philip  had  not  realized  until  that  moment 
how  absolutely  he  had  hoped  to  find  Mary  there. 
Until  that  moment  he  had  not  really  doubted  that 
he  would  find  her  and  prevail  upon  her  to  come 
back  with  him.  When,  after  his  long  journey,  his 
headlong  haste,  he  met  only  with  disappointment, 
it  was  almost  too  much  for  him.  The  room  swam 
for  a  moment,  and  he  leaned  heavily  upon  the 
mantelpiece,  gripping  it  with  nails  that  turned 
white  and  bloodless  under  the  pressure. 

It  was  the  same  room  in  which  they  had  talked 
on  Mary's  last  day  in  England.  He  remembered 
how  she  had  always  loved  it  and  its  dim  harmo- 
nies of  bronze  and  russet  and  gold.  It  was  liter- 
ally lined  with  books,  the  shelves  rising  from  floor 
to  ceiling  on  every  side,  their  serried  lines  broken 
here  and  there  by  some  picture  or  engraving.  It 
was  a  room  which,  dwarfing  the  merely  personal 
perspective,  deepened  and  greatened  the  sense  of 
life,  making  the  visitor  realize  himself  the  heir  of 
all  the  ages,  in  touch  with  colossal  contributions 
of  master  minds.  But  their  aloof  calm  held  no 
significance  for  Philip.  He  felt  his  own  tragedy 
cry  aloud  in  the  stately  place.  He  had  to  meet 
the  Duke's  quiet  and  terrible  question: 

"What  have  you  done  to  my  Mary  that  you  ask 
me  where  she  is!" 

Bluntly  and  briefly  Philip  related  all  that  had 
happened,  not  sparing  himself,  and  beyond  the 
mere  telling  of  the  story,  saying  little  of  Mary. 
Indeed  he  could  not  trust  himself.  His  voice 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       343 

trembled  on  the  utterance  of  her  name,  so  that  he 
found  himself  saying  "she,"  like  a  common 
laborer  speaking  of  his  woman. 

The  Duke  listened,  sitting  in  his  armchair,  his 
face  partially  shielded  by  his  hand,  from  under 
which  he  watched  Philip  intently,  as  he  stood  or 
walked.  When  the  sorry  tale  was  finished,  the 
Duke  sat  in  silence  for  some  time.  Finally  he 
said: 

"You  say  you  had  no  idea,  at  the  time  you  mar- 
ried Mary,  that  the  first  woman  had  any  legal 
claim?" 

"She  hasn't  any  even  now!  That  was  made 
clear.  The  case  was  dismissed." 

"Then  she  will  bring  it  again,"  said  the  Duke, 
with  conviction,  "and  she'll  prove  it  the  next 
time.  A  woman  like  that  won't  stop  at  anything, 
when  there's  a  child  to  be  considered.  Yes,"  he 
added  thoughtfully,  "and  that's  partly  Mary's 
reason  for  going  away ;  now  that  I  know  the  story, 
I  can  trace  her  motives." 

"I  can't,"  said  Philip,  "I  can't  understand." 

"Don't  you  see?  She  thinks  you  have  a  duty 
to  the  previous  bond,  and  that  she  stands  in  the 
way  of  your  fulfilling  it.  You'll  never  find  her, 
or  if  you  do,  she'll  never  live  with  you  again  un- 
til she  is  satisfied  that  you  have  fulfilled  your 
obligation. ' ' 

Philip  was  staggered  by  his  words.  "You 
can't  mean  that  Mary  would  desert  me,"  he  said 
slowly. 


344      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"I  shouldn't  say  'desert';  I  should  say  relin- 
quish— renounce. ' ' 

"But  she's  my  wife,"  Philip  broke  out  hotly. 
"There  isn't  any  'relinquish'  or  'renounce'  to 
that!  I  haven't  any  obligation  except  to  her!" 

"She  must  think  otherwise,  or  she  would  not 
have  left  you,"  returned  the  Duke. 

"If  you  mean  the  child,"  said  Philip  with  dif- 
ficulty, "of  course,  I  recognize  my  responsibility 
there.  I'll  look  after  him  as  far  as  I  can.  But 
that  is  no  reason  why  Mary  should  separate  from 
me." 

"Perhaps  she  was  thinking  also  of — the  child's 
mother." 

Philip  looked  incredulous.  "That's  so  use- 
less!" he  said.  "She  is  not  my  wife,  never  was, 
never  will  be. ' ' 

"Yet  she  has  stood  in  that  relationship  to  you," 
said  the  Duke  almost  sternly.  "And  now  that 
Mary  has  denied  her  marriage,  there  is  nothing 
to  hinder  Miss  Delayne  from  claiming  common- 
law  marriage.  If  she  established  her  claim,  she 
would  have  to  divorce  you  before  Mary  could  re- 
marry you.  And  I  think  I  know  Mary  well 
enough  to  say  she  would  never  marry  a  divorced 
man." 

Philip  had  not  sat  down  at  all  during  their 
talk,  and  now  he  came  and  stood  squarely  in  front 
of  the  Duke. 

"Mary  is  my  wife,"  he  said.  "I've  never  been 
married  to  any  one  else,  whatever  their  damnable 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       345 

laws  prove!  So  I  can't  be  divorced.  The  idea  is 
as  hateful  to  me  as  it  would  be  to  her,  though  I 
haven't  her  religious  standpoint.  But  what  is  my 
own — I  will  keep!" 

"You  have  to  find  her  first,"  said  the  Duke 
coldly. 

"Yes."  He  picked  up  his  hat.  "You  will  let 
me  know — cable  me  at  once — if  you  do  hear  from 
her,  won't  you!"  he  said. 

The  Duke  hesitated  before  replying.  "I  think 
I  will  not  bind  myself  to  any  promise,"  he  an- 
swered, after  a  moment.  "If  Mary  seeks  me,  I 
must  be  guided  by  her  wishes  in  the  matter." 

"But  I  have  a  right — "  began  Philip  fiercely, 
then  checked  himself  and  moved  toward  the 
door. 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,  Carmichael, "  said  the 
Duke  kindly.  "I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry.  You 
are  paying  the  uncommon  price  for  the  common 
sin;  but  she's  paying  it,  too,  and  she  didn't  de- 
serve it — Mary!" 

"Whereas  I  did,"  said  Philip  quietly. 

"You  have  said  it.  And  now,  how  can  I  help 
you?  What  are  your  plans f  " 

"To  find  her— that's  all." 

"Won't  you  stay  and  meet  the  Duchess  and 
Lady  Kitty!" 

"No,"  Philip  answered  bluntly,  adding 
"Thanks"  by  an  afterthought. 

"I'll  help  you  find  her,"  suggested  the  Duke 
wistfully.  "We'll  use  every  possible  means." 


346      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Not  until  I've  exhausted  my  own  means,  and 
I  shall  have  found  her  before  that.'* 

"Carmichael,"  said  the  Duke  gently,  "don't  be 
so  proud  with  an  old  man.  You  can't  wonder  at 
my  feeling  as  I  do.  I'm  desperately  sorry  for 
you,  but  Mary  is  my  charge.  I  love  her  as  if  she 
were  my  own  child." 

Philip  grasped  the  hand  held  out  to  him.  "I 
understand,"  he  said  thickly.  "You  can't  think 
as  badly  of  me  as  I  do  of  myself.  And  I  love 
her — more  than  you. ' ' 

A  moment  later  he  had  gone.  The  Duke  walked 
about  for  a  time  in  excitement  and  perplexity, 
weighing  and  considering  what  course  to  pursue. 
Finally  he  returned  to  his  armchair,  where  he  sat 
pondering  deeply.  The  Duchess  and  Lady  Kitty 
came  in  and  found  him  in  the  dark.  Lady  Kitty 
switched  on  the  light. 

"Uncle  dear!"  she  exclaimed,  when  she  caught 
sight  of  his  face,  "are  you  ill?" 

The  Duchess  same  hurrying  to  his  side. 
"What  is  the  matter,  Edward!"  she  asked 
anxiously. 

He  stopped  them  both  with  a  gesture.  "It's 
— terrible  news  of  Mary  Carmichael,"  he  said. 

When  at  last,  after  many  questions  and  inter- 
ruptions, the  story  was  told,  their  comments  were 
characteristic. 

"I  knew  it  would  come,"  said  the  Duchess,  "I 
always  felt  something  in  the  man  that  didn't  be- 
long to  Mary." 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       347 

"But,  oh,  poor  Maysie!  What  can  we  do  for 
her?"  cried  Lady  Kitty. 

"Find  her,"  answered  the  Duke.  "We  must 
find  her.'* 

That  was  what  Philip  was  saying,  as  he  sailed 
back  to  America,  after  his  fruitless  quest.  "Find 
her — I  must  find  her. ' ' 

But  there  was  a  thing  to  do  first.  He  must 
get  in  touch  with  Sheelah  Delayne  and  come  to 
some  agreement  about  the  boy.  Since  that  was 
Mary's  will,  as  the  Duke  had  interpreted  it  to 
him,  it  seemed  to  bring  him  closer  to  her  to  do  it. 
Besides,  there  was  a  hunger  in  his  heart  for  a 
sight  of  the  lad.  It  seemed  connected  with  his 
hunger  for  Mary.  Ah,  if  only  they  could  have 
belonged  to  each  other,  as  he  belonged  to  them 
both! 

Through  one  of  the  dramatic  papers,  he  found 
Sheelah  without  difficulty.  He  wrote  to  her  form- 
ally at  the  theater  where  she  was  playing  and  ob- 
tained an  appointment  to  call  at  her  hotel  on 
the  following  day.  When  he  did  so,  he  was  taken 
at  once  to  her  apartment,  which  was  a  modest  one 
— merely  two  bedrooms  and  a  small  sitting-room. 
She  was  not  there  when  he  entered,  and  he  walked 
about  looking  at  the  photographs.  They  were 
mostly  of  the  boy ;  Michael  as  a  little  serious  baby 
— Michael  as  a  toddling  two-year-old  with  a  shovel 
and  wheelbarrow — Michael  with  a  primer  under 
his  arm,  on  his  way  to  school — Michael  at 
play  with  his  big  dog;  and  one  very  lovely  one 


348       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

on  the  mantel,  of  mother  and  child  together,  sit- 
ting in  front  of  a  fire,  she  in  a  big  armchair,  with 
her  arm  around  the  boy  as  he  sat  on  the  floor, 
leaning  his  head  against  her  knee.  Philip 
divined  this  to  be  a  stage-picture,  but  it  was  very 
artistic  and  natural.  He  was  looking  at  it  with 
an  unconscious  wistfulness  when  Sheelah  Delayne 
entered  quietly  from  one  of  the  bedrooms.  She 
caught  sight  of  his  expression  in  the  mirror  over 
the  mantel,  and  in  the  same  glass  he  saw  her  and 
turned  at  once,  his  expression  changing. 

" Won't  you  sit  down?"  she  said  coldly,  sitting 
herself,  and  she  added,  as  he  obeyed  her  mechan- 
ically: "I  feel  like  beginning  as  they  do  in  the 
old  melodramas :  'To  what  am  I  indebted  for  the 
honor  of  this  visit!' 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  in 
silence,  two  frank  foes  without  the  pretense 
of  any  other  relation  between  them.  Then  Philip 
answered:  "There  is  only  one  reason  why  I 
should  trouble  you,  and  that  is,  of  course,  the 
thing  we  have  in  common — the  child." 

She  breathed  a  little  more  quickly,  but  waited. 
Philip  continued,  speaking  slowly  and  choosing 
his  words: 

"Your  suit,  which  was  unjust,  as  you  know, 
failed;  but  the  child's  claim  is  true.  I  acknowl- 
edge my  responsibility  toward  him  and  am  anx- 
ious to  discharge  it.  We  must  come  to  some 
agreement  about  him — and  about  his  future. 
What  do  you  suggest?" 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       349 

Her  eyes  flashed.  "I  will  not  permit  you  to 
interfere  in  any  way ! ' ' 

And  he  answered,  his  own  intensity  astonishing 
him:  "You  cannot  prevent  it.  He  is  mine  as 
well  as  yours!  You  admitted  my  parentage 
in  a  court  of  law,  and  a  child  belongs  to  its 
father!" 

"Not  outside  the  marriage  bond!"  Her  eyes 
were  dilated  and  deepened  in  color,  but  she  kept 
her  self-control,  though  there  came  a  sound  of 
strain  in  the  quality  of  her  voice.  ' '  I  claimed  com- 
mon-law marriage,  thinking  it  would  benefit  the 
child.  I  didn't  care  whom  I  hurt,  you  or  your 
wife  or  myself,  so  long  as  I  got  what  I  wanted  for 
the  boy.  I  failed  and  I  am  glad  now  that  I  did. 
"When  your  wife  did  what  she  did — that  brave, 
big  thing — and  you  allowed  it,  accepted  it,  without 
a  protest,  I  despised  you  so  utterly  I  could  have 
died  of  shame  to  think  you  had  any  part  in  my 
son.  I  shall  bring  no  further  claim  against  you. 
It  is  better  for  the  boy  to  be  illegitimate  than 
that  you  should  have  any  rights  over  him.  I  can 
do  for  my  child  myself,  thank  God!  We  do  not 
need  you ! ' ' 

Philip,  white  to  the  lips  at  the  lashing  of  her 
words,  arose  to  go,  and  at  the  same  moment  the 
boy  himself  knocked  and  entered  at  once. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  catching 
sight  of  a  visitor,  "I  didn't  know  there  was  any 
one  with  you,  Mother."  He  would  have  with- 
drawn, but  encountering  Philip's  look,  he  hesi- 


350       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

tated.  After  a  second,  he  looked  at  his  mother 
questioningly. 

"It  is  my  father,  isn't  it?" 

She  nodded  without  speaking,  and  they  both 
watched  the  child.  He  went  to  Philip  rather  dif- 
fidently, but  with  beautiful  manners,  and  offered 
his  hand. 

"How  do  you  do!"  he  said.  "I  never  had  a 
father  before,  so  I  don't  know  quite  what  to  do 
with  one.  Will  you  teach  me!"  He  smiled,  and 
his  smile  was  very  winning  and  frank  and  merry. 

Philip's  throat  contracted  painfully. 

"I'm  afraid  it  is  you  who  will  have  to  teach 
me,  Michael,"  he  said  gently.  "Would  you  like 
tot  I  mean  would  you  like  to  come  and  visit  me 
sometimes!"  His  eyes  encountered  Sheelah's 
over  the  boy's  head.  Hers  were  stormy,  but  she 
controlled  her  feeling  and  waited  for  the  child's 
answer,  patiently. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Michael  at  once,  then  hesitated. 
"That  is,  would -Mother  come,  too!" 

"No,"  she  answered  shortly. 

He  seemed  disappointed,  but  turned  at  once 
with  his  unchildish  courtesy  to  Philip. 

"Then,  you  see,  I  couldn't,"  he  said,  as  if  that 
settled  the  matter;  "but  I  thank  you  all  the  same 
for  asking  me." 

"Are  you  answered!"  said  Sheelah  quietly. 

"Shall  I  go  away,  Mother!"  asked  Michael 
hesitatingly. 

"Yes,  dear,  for  a  few  minutes." 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      351 

He  turned  to  Philip  again  and  slowly  held  out 
his  hand. 

"Good-by — Father,"  he  said  simply. 

It  was  a  very  agonizing  moment  for  the  man 
and  the  woman.  The  child  waited,  expectant  of 
something  more  than  a  mere  handshake.  After 
a  second  Philip  laid  one  arm  about  the  boy's 
shoulders  and  with  the  other  hand  gently  lifted 
Michael's  face. 

"Good-by,  my  son,"  he  said,  as  simply  as  the 
child.  " Don't  forget  me,  will  you?" 

" Never,"  Michael  answered,  looking  him  in  the 
eyes.  Then  he  withdrew. 

Philip  walked  to  the  door,  then  turned  and 
looked  back  at  Sheelah.  He  felt  hopeless  and  de- 
jected, but  he  made  one  last  appeal. 

"I  will  do  anything  I  can  for  him,"  he  said, 
"or  for  you." 

She  smiled  ironically.  "What  would  your 
wife  say  to  that?" 

"She  would  wish  it,  if  she  knew." 

"If  she  knew!    Isn't  she  with  you?" 

"No.  She  left  me,  I  believe  because  she 
thought  you  had  a  prior  claim." 

She  smiled  again.  "I  renounce  it — as  she 
did!"  Then,  quite  pitilessly,  she  added:  "It's 
not  worth  fighting  for — such  a  claim  to  such  a 
man."  Her  eyes  ran  over  him  as  if  appraising 
his  value,  and  she  added,  not  bitterly,  but  softly, 
in  a  kind  of  wonder:  "God!  what  is  there  in 
you,  Philip  Carmichael,  that  two  strong  women 


352      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

—and  one  little  child — should  have  given  you  so 
much  ? '  * 
He  left  her  without  a  word. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"Whom  wilt  thou  find  to  love  ignoble  thee 
Save  me — save  only  me!" 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON. 

BITTER  loneliness  descended  upon  Philip 
when  he  returned  to  his  hotel.  The  clerk 
in  the  office  said  to  him,  as  he  gave  him 
his  key: 

"A  trunk  arrived  for  you,  Mr.  Carmichael,  the 
day  after  you  sailed.  We  kept  it,  not  knowing 
where  to  send  it.  Would  you  like  it  brought  up 
to  your  room?" 

"Yes,"  said  Philip  listlessly. 

But  after  it  had  come,  he  did  not  unlock  it  for 
some  time.  He  walked  up  and  down  moodily, 
trying  to  arrange  his  plans,  trying  to  make  any 
headway  against  the  depression  that  over- 
whelmed him.  He  saw  himself  devoted  to  one 
purpose  and  one  only:  to  use  every  means,  se- 
cretly at  first,  and  if  that  failed,  then  openly,  to 
find  Mary. 

"First  detectives  and  secret  service  agents, 
then  advertising.  I'll  exhaust  every  resource  un- 
til I  find  her,"  he  thought.  ''To-morrow  1*11 
start.  But  now  I  must  get  out — get  away — not 
stay  in  here  and  brood. ' ' 

Then  he  caught  sight  of  the  trunk  and  opened 


354      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

it.    Pinned  to  the  lid  of  the  top  tray,  he  found  a 
letter  from  MacGregor.    It  read: 

"Mr.  Carmichael— 

"Dear  Sir, 

"Mr.  Baldwin  telegraphed  for  me  to  send  you 
on  some  clothes.  I  put  in  one  of  her  ladyship's, 
too,  asking  your  pardon  for  making  so  bold,  but 
fearing  she  may  need  it.  I  hope  you  will  not  be 
long  away,  but  I'll  take  care  of  the  ranch  as  be- 
fore, until  you  and  your  good  lady  return." 
Yours  faithfully, 

ANDREW  MACGREGOB." 

Philip  wondered  over  the  "her  ladyship"  then 
decided  it  was  MacGregor 's  fanciful  way  of  put- 
ting it.  He  had  a  great  admiration  for  his  mis- 
tress. The  next  thing  Philip's  hand  came  upon 
was  the  soft  white  dressing-gown  of  Mary's.  It 
almost  unmanned  him,  it  spoke  so  intimately  of 
her,  recalled  such  sacred  things  which  only  they 
two  knew. 

It  was  over  a  month  since  she  had  gone  away. 
He  had  been  to  England  and  back,  traveled  thou- 
sands of  miles  to  find  her,  and  was  no  nearer  her, 
perhaps  not  so  near  her,  as  when  he  started. 
Something  like  despair  came  over  him  as 
he  realized  the  situation  and  the  utter  blank- 
ness  of  his  life.  He  was  in  an  alien  country; 
in  all  that  city  he  had  no  friend,  no  one  to 
turn  to,  nowhere  to  go.  His  life  was  in  ruins, 
his  reputation  gone;  hopes  and  ambitions  were 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       355 

dead  and  done  with  forever.  There  remained  one 
thing  to  go  on  living  for,  one  purpose:  to  find 
his  wife  and  somehow  to  make  it  up  to  her.  He 
folded  the  dressing-gown  tenderly  and  laid  it 
away. 

"I'll  spend  all  I  have,"  he  said  resolutely, 
"everything,  to  find  her.  And  when  it  is  quite 
gone — then — " 

Dark  thoughts  came  to  him,  perilous,  dark 
thoughts. 

"But  not  till  then,"  he  said. 

The  year  had  gone  around  again  before  he  re- 
turned to  Santa  Eita.  His  search  was  still  un- 
rewarded, his  means  greatly  diminished  by  reck- 
less expenditure.  Every  resource  of  money  and 
skill  had  been  exhausted.  The  Duke  and  Duch- 
ess had  joined  in  the  search  with  consternation 
and  love,  but  so  far  all  their  efforts  to  find  Mary 
had  proved  unavailing,  and  they  had  begun  to 
doubt  if  she  was  still  alive. 

Philip,  whatever  his  doubts,  never  desisted  for 
an  hour  from  his  endeavor.  He  had  used  all  the 
capital  he  possessed,  sacrificed  it  without  hesi- 
tation, and  it  was  to  get  more  by  the  sale  of  his 
place,  that  he  returned  to  Santa  Eita.  He  had 
become  a  man  with  one  idea.  It  dominated  him, 
making  him  frugal  even  to  poverty  in  the  things 
that  concerned  himself,  but  prodigal  in  expendi- 
ture for  anything  which  he  thought  would  further 
his  purpose. 

One  evening  in  the  fall,  he  walked  into  the 


356      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

garden  and  through  the  orchard,  avoiding  the 
house,  until  he  came  upon  MacGregor,  putting  up 
his  horse  for  the  night.  The  old  man  stopped  at 
once  and  came  to  meet  Philip  with  a  hearty  greet- 
ing, which  fell  gratefully  on  the  ears  of  the  home- 
less wanderer.  The  fixed  look  of  his  face  re- 
laxed for  a  moment  in  his  old,  kind  smile,  and  he 
shook  hands  with  his  servant  warmly.  He  would 
not  have  done  that  once. 

"Glad  to  see  you  again,  MacGregor." 

' '  And  I,  you,  sir.  ' '  But  the  old  man 's  look  went 
searching  beyond  Philip,  as  though  looking  for 
some  one. 

' '  She 's  not  with  me, ' '  Philip  answered  the  look, 
adding:  "Surely  you  heard,  MacGregor!" 

"Yes,  sir,  afterwards — after  you  had  gone,  and 
I  had  sent  the  box.  I  was  turrible  sorry,  sir. 
You  haven't  found  her?" 

c '  No.    You  have  no  news  of  her  here  ? ' ' 

"No,  sir." 

Philip's  gaze  wandered  over  the  dry  and  dusty 
plain,  over  the  little  house  on  its  slight  rise,  over 
the  burnt-up  garden  which  had  been  Mary's  de- 
light. 

"I  couldn't  do  much  with  the  garden,  sir;  there 
wasn't  time,  but  the  crop  was  fine  this  year,"  said 
MacGregor,  with  pride. 

"Good.    I  need  the  money." 

"It's  banked  for  you,  sir." 

"Thanks.  I'm  going  to  sell  the  place,  Mac- 
Gregor." 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       357 

"Oh,  sir — not  the  good  land!  Why,  your  uncle 
loved  it — every  stick  and  stone  of  it." 

"I  know — but  I  need  the  money — to  find  her. 
I'll  look  after  you,  don't  fear.  You've  been  a 
faithful  steward.  But,  except  for  that  which  is 
yours,  everything  must  go  till  I  find — my  wife." 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  wonder  at  his  speak- 
ing so  frankly  to  a  servant.  But  that,  too,  was 
unlike  the  old  Philip  Carmichael.  MacGregor 
stood  turning  his  hat  around  in  his  hands. 

"If  it's  not  making  too  bold,  sir,  why  don't  you 
just  stay  here — and  wait.  She  '11  come  home  some 
day." 

"I  can't." 

"Well  then,  sir,  wait  as  long  as  ye  can.  Ye 're 
young  yet.  Sell  everything  but  the  house  and  the 
land;  leave  that  till  the  last,  for  ye  may  need  it. 
Ye've  not  been  in,  yet!" 

"No." 

"It's  all  shut  up.  I  didn't  expect  ye.  No  one's 
been  there  since  the  day  you  left.  Shall  I  come 
and  get  ye  some  food,  sir?" 

"Thanks — later,"  Philip  answered. 

He  went  on  alone,  longing  for,  yet  dreading  the 
next  hour,  and  MacGregor,  with  a  deep  misgiving 
about  the  master  in  his  mind,  trudged  off  on  his 
nightly  visit  to  the  post-office,  for  the  evening 
paper. 

Philip  passed  through  the  kitchen  and  dining- 
room  hurriedly,  crossed  the  little  hall,  and  entered1 
the  living-room.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him 


358      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

and  leaned  against  it,  looking  about  him  with 
hungry  and  desolate  eyes.  Nothing  was  changed. 
If  Mary  had  only  just  then  left  the  room,  it  could 
not  have  spoken  more  eloquently  of  her.  There 
was  her  work-basket  full  of  homely  mending,  and, 
farther  on,  her  work-table  with  the  knitting-nee- 
dles still  thrust  through  balls  of  bright-colored 
worsteds.  There  was  the  piano,  open  as  she  had 
left  it,  with  the  last  song  she  had  sung — such  a 
gay  little  French  song!  and  there,  too,  was  her 
writing-table,  with  its  household  account  books. 
He  recalled  the  little  frown  of  importance  which 
she  used  to  wear  when  she  was  figuring  in  those 
books.  They  never  would  balance,  and  he  used  to 
laugh  at  her  hopeless  struggles  with  them.  He 
laughed  now,  too— remembering — but  it  ended  in 
a  gulp  that  hurt  his  throat.  The  very  pillow  in 
her  easy  chair  had  kept  the  impress  of  her  head. 
He  touched  it  reverently  and  turned  away,  sick 
at  heart. 

Moments  went  by;  the  silence  and  the  shadows 
deepened ;  yet  still  Philip  Carmichael  sat  with  his 
head  bowed  in  his  hands. 

He  was  finally  aroused  by  a  knock  on  the 
outer  door,  and  upon  opening  it,  saw  Father  John 
standing  on  the  porch. 

"I  met  your  servant  at  the  post-office,  and  he 
told  me  you  had  returned,"  the  priest  said 
heartily,  "so  I  just  stopped  in  for  a  minute,  to 
say  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you." 

"You're  very  kind,"  answered  Philip,  "come 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       359 

in."  He  found  some  matches  and  lit  the  candles. 
While  he  was  doing  so,  Father  John,  though  talk- 
ing naturally  and  cheerfully  the  while,  was  ob- 
serving him  closely.  The  flare  of  the  match  re- 
vealed the  hollows  under  the  eyes,  as  of  one  who 
needed  sleep,  and  the  look  of  the  face  was  thinner 
and  sharper  than  of  old,  with  all  the  features  a 
shade  more  finely  drawn.  There  were  other 
changes,  too<  The  ready  smile  and  irresistible 
twinkle  of  fun  and  Irish  humor  which  had  be- 
longed to  the  original  Philip  Carmichael  were 
missing;  so,  too,  was  the  debonair,  well-groomed 
look  which  used  to  distinguish  him.  His  appear- 
ance now,  though  neat  enough,  was  shabby,  almost 
careless.  A  changed  man,  indeed,  yet  Father 
John  liked  the  change,  somehow. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself?'* 
he  asked,  after  they  had  talked  awhile. 

"Nothing — but  look  for  my  wife.  It  has  kept 
me  on  the  go;  following  one  clew  after  another, 
which  led  nowhere.  It  seems  incredible !  It  is  a 
year  and  four  months  since  she  went  away — that 
was  in  June — and  I  seem  no  nearer  her 
now ! ' ' 

"That  is  what  I  wanted  to  see  you  about,  Car- 
michael, because  it  seems  to  me  the  time  has  come 
to  tell  you  something." 

A  quick  look  of  hope  came  into  Philip's  face, 
but  died  out  as  the  priest  continued : 

"No,  don't  set  your  heart  on  it.  I  have  no 
definite  news  for  you,  but  I  did  know  where  Mrs. 


360      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Carmichael  was  for  the  first  three  months  after 
she  left  you. ' ' 

' '  Where  ?    Oh,  why  didn  't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"You  went  rushing  off  and  never  asked  me. 
Besides,  she  had  implored  me  not  to  do  so,  and 
though  I  didn't  promise,  I  would  have  respected 
her  wish  if  it  hadn't  been  that  she  left  the  convent 
where  I  placed  her,  over  a  year  ago,  and  they  have 
lost  all  track  of  her." 

A  smothered  groan  broke  from  Philip.  Father 
John  then  recounted  what  had  passed  between 
him  and  Mary  in  the  railway  station  in  Los 
Angeles,  adding  that  he  had  kept  in  touch  with 
her  while  she  had  been  in  retreat,  by  means  of 
letters. 

"But  after  she  had  been  there  about  three 
months,"  he  said,  "she  wrote  me  that  she  had  de- 
cided to  become  a  secretary  to  some  lady  with  a 
social  position,  and  that  she  would  write  me  more 
fully  from  her  new  environment,  in  a  few  days. 
I  never  heard  again  from  her,  and  that  is  quite 
a  year  ago." 

"But  didn't  you  make  any  inquiries — any  ef- 
fort!" 

"Of  course  I  did,"  Father  John  answered  ear- 
nestly, "by  letter  and  in  person.  I  called  upon 
the  lady  who  had  employed  her  and  whose  ad- 
dress I  got  from  the  Sisters.  The  lady  said  that 
she  had  left  her  employ,  and  she  didn't  know- 
where  she  had  gone.  Neither  would  she  give  me 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      361 

any  reason  for  her  going,  but  she  seemed  very 
bitter  and  jealous.  I  couldn't  account  for  it." 

" What's  the  name  and  address!"  said  Philip. 
"I'll  make  her  account  for  it!" 

"Gently,  Carmichael.  What  an  impetuous  fel- 
low you  are !  Suppose  this  clew  does  lead  to  your 
finding  her;  what  then  I" 

"That's  in  her  hands." 

"She  evidently  doesn't  want  to  be  found,  since 
she  won't  trust  even  me.  And  if  you  do  find  her, 
I'm  afraid — I'm  afraid  for  you,  Carmichael — that 
you  will  meet  even  a  greater  heart-break  and  dis- 
appointment than  you  have  now." 

"Then  I'll  meet  it,"  Philip  returned  quietly, 
"when  it  comes.  But  why  shouldn't  she  let  you 
know  where  she  is!" 

"Obviously,  for  fear  that  I  might  tell  you,  as 
I  certainly  would  now,  if  I  knew.  Don't  think 
that  I  haven't  done  my  best  to  find  her,  Car- 
michael. She  is  my  charge,  too,  you  know.  I 
have  interested  myself  personally  and  particu- 
larly in  her,  and  have  instituted  all  sorts  of  in- 
quiries. We  shall  find  her  sooner  or  later,  for 
she  is  a  child  of  the  Church,  and  sooner  or  later 
she  will  seek  its  ministrations  in  some  way. 
When  she  does,  I  feel  sure  I  shall  know.  Mean- 
time, like  you,  I  have  not  given  up  either  hope  or 
effort.  But  when  you  do  find  her,  I  fear  it  will 
do  you  little  good." 

"I  know  the  standpoint  that  you  all  share," 


362       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Philip  replied.  "I  know  the  idea  that  is  keeping 
her  from  me.  I  went  over  it  with  the  Duke,  her 
godfather.  You  think  I  have  a  duty  to  the  former 
bond,  which  gave  me  my  son.  God  knows  I  have ! 
God  knows  I'd  pay  it  if  I  could,  for  the  child's 
sake!  But  I  can't.  It's  too  late.  And  I'm  not 
free.  You  know,  Father,  before  all  must  come — 
my  wife." 

"But  if  she  can't  see  things  that  way,  if  she 
won't  come!" 

' '  She  must.    I  '11  make  her  see  them. ' ' 

"Ah,  that's  what  she  feared!" 

"But  it's  right!"  said  Philip  fiercely.  "How- 
ever little  I  deserve  it,  the  fact  remains,  ours  is  a 
marriage.  The  other — was  not.  That's  the 
whole  of  it.  I  acknowledge  my  sin.  It's  before 
me  day  and  night.  She  pays — poor  girl!  My 
punishment  is  that  I  can't;  that  the  cost  must  be 
paid  for  me  by  a  woman  and  a  child!" 

"No,  each  pays  his  own  cost,  his  own  way." 

"If  I  could  only  pay  for  all !" 

"Souls  cost  more  than  that,"  said  Father  John. 
"God  wants  the  individual  heart.  You  cannot 
offer  your  brother's — only  your  own."  The 
priest  sent  a  fine,  direct  look  into  Philip's  eyes, 
which  fell  before  it. 

"I  do,"  he  said  humbly.  "Only  it  isn't  worth 
offering.  It's  too  poor  a  thing!" 

"It's  all  you  have,  isn't  it!"  Father  John  re- 
turned tenderly,  with  a  little  smile.  "And  He 
can  make  it — all  He  would  have !  Do  you  know, 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      363 

Carmichael, ' '  he  added  more  slowly  and  solemnly, 
"I  think  that  through  all  this,  God  is  fashioning 
you  for  an  instrument  of  great  service,  in  His 
hand?" 

"Me?"  said  Philip  incredulously. 

"You."  Father  John  laughed  genially  at  his 
amazement,  and  the  wholesome  sound  seemed  to 
restore  the  everyday  balance  of  life.  "Shall  you 
be  here  long?"  he  added. 

"Not  long.  I  shall  raise  some  more  money  by 
the  sale  of  these  things  and  then  follow  up  the 
clew  you  gave  me." 

"You  won't  go  rushing  off  again  without  say- 
ing good-by,  will  you?  You  see,  now  that  I've 
got  hold  of  you  again,  I  don't  intend  to  let  go!" 

"No,  don't  let  go,"  answered  Philip,  out  of  his 
besetting  loneliness. 

"No  fear!"  said  Father  John  heartily,  as  he 
prepared  to  go,  "and  I'll  help  you  in  any  way  I 
can. ' ' 

He  walked  home  with  a  blithe  heart.  He  had 
done  a  man  good,  and  he  knew  it.  He  had 
changed  the  haunting  shadow  in  a  fellow-crea- 
ture's eyes  to  a  smile,  for  a  moment,  at  least. 
And  somehow  he  had  got  a  confession  from  the 
man,  though  the  man  himself  wasn't  aware  of  it. 

"And  I  don't  think,"  Father  John  reflected 
conscientiously,  with  a  little,  whimsical  smile, 
' '  that  I  was  very  religious  about  it ! " 

Philip  followed  MacGregor's  advice  and  de- 
cided to  hold  the  house  and  land  until  the  last. 


364      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

But  all  his  effects  that  were  convertible  into  cash 
he  sold.  To  a  firm  in  Los  Angeles  went  the  fur- 
niture and  the  beautiful  rug  which  they  had 
bought  on  the  day  of  their  wedding.  The  house 
was  despoiled  of  all  its  comfort  and  charm,  and 
only  the  barest  necessities  were  left :  a  few  kitchen 
utensils,  the  couch  in  the  living-room,  in  case  he 
should  return  and  want  to  put  up  for  the  night, 
and  the  wooden  settle  by  the  hearth.  Every- 
thing else  went,  and  Philip  himself  was  going 
again. 

'  *  Eh, ' '  said  old  MacGregor  sadly,  when  the  last 
of  the  wagons  had  departed,  "if  Mrs.  Carmichael 
should  return,  she'd  find  a  changed  hoose!" 

4 '  If  she  should  return,  we  would  never  live  here 
again,"  Philip  answered.  Then  he  added,  sens- 
ing the  loneliness  of  the  old  man:  "You're  com- 
fortable in  your  bit  of  a  cottage,  aren't  you,  Mac- 
Gregor?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,  I  lack  nothing." 

"Then  wait  a  bit  longer — till  I  come  again — 
and  I'll  either  stay,  or  take  you  with  me,  if  you 
want  to  go." 

"Where,  sir?" 

* '  That  I  don 't  know.    But  I  '11  provide  for  you. ' ' 

Then  he  went  to  say  good-by  to  Father  John. 
He  found  him  in  his  study,  which  was  in  the 
church  building. 

"I'm  off  to  follow  up  the  clew  you  gave  me," 
he  said.  "I  shall  find  her  this  time." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  asked  the  priest. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       365 

"Because  what  I  have  now  is  my  last — except 
the  house  and  land — and  I've  had  a  queer  feeling 
from  the  first,  that  it  would  take  all  I  have,  and 
that  then  she  would  be  given  me  again.  Odd 
how  one  gets  such  notions,  isn't  it?  But  it  has 
become  a  faith  with  me." 

"God  reward  it!" 

"Thanks.  There's  something  I  wanted  to  ask 
you.  What  did  you  mean  the  other  night,  when 
you  said  I  was  being  fashioned  for  'an  instru- 
ment of  service  in  His  Hand';  what  sort  of  serv- 
ice?" 

"There  are  so  many  kinds,"  the  priest  an- 
swered slowly,  "among  the  outcasts  of  earth;  in 
prisons;  among  the  living  and  the  dying  in  the 
army;  in  the  mission-fields  and  the  pestilence  dis- 
tricts; in  the  quiet  country  places,  in  the  sordid 
towns.  In  all  these,  men  are  needed,  men  of  gifts, 
men  who  have  suffered,  men  who  know  life." 

Philip  looked  disappointed. 

"I  would  be  of  no  use  in  any  of  them,"  he 
said,  * '  and  yet,  you  said — me. ' ' 

Father  John  gave  him  the  direct,  forceful  look 
characteristic  of  him. 

"Will  you  ask  me  that  question  again,  when 
you  come  back,  Philip  Carmichael  ? ' ' 

And  his  was  the  last  friend's  hand  which 
Philip  touched,  and  the  last  friend's  face  which 
he  saw,  as  he  turned  again,  indomitably,  to  his 
quest. 


CHAPTER  XII 

"All  which  I  took  from  thee,  I  did  but  take, 

Not  for  thy  harms, 
But  just  that  thou  might'st  seek  it  in  My  arms. 

All  which  thy  child's  mistake 

Fancies  as  lost,  I  have  but  stored  for  thee  at  home: 
Rise,  clasp  My  hand,  and  come." 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON. 

IT  was  a  deserted  house  the  wind  shrieked 
through  during  that  rainy  season.  Empty 
rooms,  dismantled  of  all  which  had  made 
them  gay  and  comfortable,  cried  aloud  their 
loneliness.  A  desolation  of  dirt  and  debris  lay 
over  them.  Unmolested  mice  romped  at  large, 
instead  of  peeping  furtively  as  of  old.  Doors 
sagged  on  their  hinges,  yawning  cupboards  gaped 
their  emptiness,  and  one  loose  shutter  banged  at 
monotonous  intervals.  The  rain  came  down  in 
torrents,  washing  the  house  and  flooding  the 
garden.  The  high  wind,  as  it  passed,  howled  de- 
rision on  the  abandoned  home  that  once  had  held 
so  much  of  life  and  love  and  cheer. 

Yet  it  stood,  silent  and  enduring,  very  old,  very 
little,  very  cold  and  dark — like  a  mind  through 
which  so  much  has  passed,  it  has  forgotten  all, 
from  which  the  last  memory  and  hope  and  even 
dream  have  been  obliterated. 

Once  again  Philip  Carmichael  had  returned, 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      367 

and  once  again  old  MacGregor  stood  with  him  in 
the  comfortless  living-room.  Both  men  were  in 
rough  boots,  from  which  the  water  soaked  out  at 
every  step.  The  bare  boards,  once  covered  with 
soft  carpets,  creaked  under  their  feet.  Philip 
took  off  his  heavy  coat  and  flung  it,  all  dripping 
as  it  was,  over  the  stair-rail  in  the  hall.  Old 
MacGregor  kept  his  on,  and  rivulets  of  water  ran 
down  and  formed  a  little  pool  in  the  spot  where 
he  stood.  He  related  the  news  of  the  place,  such 
as  it  was — principally  the  well-being  of  the  ani- 
mals in  his  care — and  Philip  listened  patiently. 
He  had  grown  strangely  patient  of  late,  partly 
perhaps  because  so  few  things  really  mattered  to 
him.  He  was  roughened  and  more  careless  in 
outward  appearance,  but  the  inner  texture  of  the 
man  seemed  stronger  and  finer.  The  old  gay 
charm  of  manner  and  smile,  which  had  endeared 
him  to  many,  was  still  his,  though  it  showed  less 
frequently  than  it  had  once  done.  It  shone  out 
kindly  on  MacGregor,  when  the  old  man,  his  story 
done,  moved  toward  the  door. 

"I'll  share  your  supper  with  you,  MacGregor, 
if  you  ask  me." 

"Oh,  sir,  ye 're  maist  welcome.  But  I  would 
ha'  brought  it  in  to  ye." 

"No,  I'll  come  to  you,  if  I  may." 

"Ye 're  never  thinking  of  sleeping  here,  sir,  for 
the  nicht!" 

"That  lam!" 

' '  Eh,  sir,  'tis  too  dismal  for  ye.    I  can  give  ye 


368      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

a  mair  comfortable  cot  in  my  ain  hoose  1"  Philip 
thanked  him  but  refused,  saying  he  would  shake 
down  where  he  was  for  the  night.  To-morrow 
he  would  be  gone  again.  Meantime  the  couch  was 
comfortable  enough,  and  there  were  plenty  of 
blankets. 

"All  I  want  is  a  candle  and  a  bit  of  fire.  I'll 
come  out  presently  and  get  some  wood.  Have 
you  anything  to  read,  MacGregor?" 

"No,  sir,  but  I'll  bring  ye  something,  when  I 
go  down  for  the  evening  paper. ' ' 

"Thanks,  do." 

MacGregor  turned  on  the  threshold. 

"Beg  pardon,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  "but  had 
ye  no  luck  on  your  journey?  No  news?" 

"No,  nothing  definite." 

The  old  man  withdrew  sorrowfully.  Philip 
walked  up  and  down  the  empty  room  a  while, 
moodily,  hands  crammed  in  pockets,  head  bent. 
The  blue-gray  eyes  had  lost  their  smile  now,  and 
a  look  of  settled  sadness  returned  to  them.  The 
short  winter  twilight  was  closing  in  on  the  murk 
of  the  sodden  day.  He  stood  a  while  by  the  win- 
dow, looking  out  on  the  cheerless  garden,  then 
came  back  slowly  and  sat  down  on  the  settle  by 
the  cold  hearth,  reaching  for  his  pipe  and  to- 
bacco. Absently  he  filled  and  lighted  it,  his  mind 
far  away,  and  drew  several  long  breaths.  His 
figure  gradually  relaxed,  and  he  leaned  forward, 
elbows  on  knees,  absorbed  in  his  inner  contempla- 
tion. The  events  of  all  his  life  seemed  to  be 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      369 

passing  before  his  mind,  and  occasionally  a  bitter 
word  or  phrase  fell  into  the  silence  of  the  room. 
"Fool!"  he  said  once  very  quietly;  "missed 
everything."  "All  my  own  fault."  And  again: 
"Had  everything — the  best  of  all."  His  pipe 
dropped  unheeded  on  the  floor,  his  hands  fell  be- 
tween his  knees,  and  his  head  sunk  forward  in 
deep  dejection,  almost  desapir.  After  a  little  his 
eyes  caught  the  glint  of  gold  on  the  hearth,  and 
stooping,  he  saw  it  was  her  wedding-ring. 

It  had  fallen  from  the  mantel  where  she  left 
it,  and  he  saw  their  names  on  its  interlocked  cir- 
cles: "Philip"  on  one,  "Mary"  on  the  other. 
He  pressed  the  two  halves  together,  and  it  was  a 
conventional  wedding-ring  again. 

But  the  man  could  bear  no  more.  He  cried 
aloud  "Mary!"  to  the  stillness,  then  steadied  him- 
self, crushing  back  a  strange,  inarticulate  sound 
in  his  throat.  Groping,  he  found  the  door,  flung 
on  his  coat,  and  passed  out  into  the  rain. 

He  had  been  gone  only  a  few  moments,  when 
to  the  low  doorstep,  blown  against  the  unlocked 
door,  came  a  wind-driven  figure.  The  latch 
yielded  to  her  unconscious,  accustomed  touch; 
then  the  door  closed  behind  her,  and  she  stood 
in  the  little  hall.  As  if  from  old  habit,  she  un- 
loosed her  cloak  to  hang  it  up,  but  the  chill  of  the 
place  struck  through  her,  and  she  drew  its  rags 
about  her  thin  shoulders  again.  Her  face  was 
wan,  her  eyes  unnaturally  bright  and  dazed,  with 
a  look  in  them  as  of  one  to  whom  the  imaginations 


370      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

of  the  mind  are  more  real  than  the  actual  ma- 
terial evidence  of  the  senses.  Like  a  sleep- 
walker who  sees  nothing,  hears  nothing,  she  was 
dominated  by  her  dream,  and  it  upheld  her  with 
a  strength  that  did  not  come  from  her  fragile 
body.  As  she  stood  hesitating,  the  little  flight  of 
stairs  lured  her,  and  she  went  up  them  with  a 
light  step,  like  one  expectant  of  joy  at  the  top. 
The  upper  rooms  were  nearly  as  dreary  as  the 
lower,  but  the  short  winter  twilight  had  not  set- 
tled down  on  them  yet.  The  woman  passed  over 
the  threshold  of  the  largest  room,  with  the  step 
of  a  queen  coming  into  her  own.  She  did  not  see 
its  emptiness.  Her  imagination  furnished  it. 
As  she  entered,  she  instinctively  made  a  gesture 
as  if  holding  back  a  curtain.  So  natural  it  was, 
that  one  might  almost  see  its  folds  fall  behind  her, 
and  be  startled  that  there  was  really  nothing 
there  but  the  shadows. 

Then  for  the  first  time  she  spoke,  in  a  voice  as 
soft  as  the  silence. 

"Dear,"  she  said,  "dear,  I  have  come  home." 
Outside  the  wind  shrieked  its  anathema  on  all 
it  passed  by;  the  tortured  shutter  banged  vio- 
lently against  the  house,  and  following  the 
other  sounds  came  a  dry  rustling  like  little  whis- 
pers. The  woman  looked  toward  the  light. 
There,  in  the  outer  window-boxes,  gaunt  and  dead, 
were  the  dry  husks  of  what  had  been  summer 
blossoms  once.  Their  withered  stalks  blew  to- 
gether and  rustled  against  the  window-pane.  But 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      371 

to  the  woman's  eyes,  memory-haunted,  they  were 
still  in  bloom. 

"My  pretties — my  pretties,"  she  said,  and 
walked  toward  them  in  the  fast-gathering  dark- 
ness. As  she  put  out  her  hand  to  touch  them, 
she  hesitated  and  stopped.  Bewilderment  came 
into  her  eyes.  These  were  not  flowers — these  dry 
brown  wisps!  Swiftly  she  turned  and  peered 
into  the  room.  The  horror  of  reality  broke  over 
her  face — of  reality  and  recognition.  There  were 
the  low,  slant  walls ;  but  where  were  their  pictures, 
their  trophies?  There  were  the  old,  uneven 
floors;  but  where  were  the  rugs,  the  chairs,  the 
tables,  the  common,  daily  things  of  life?  There 
was  the  mantel  and  below  the  cold  hearthstone, 
but  where  was  the  fire  that  had  burned  there  ? 

She  threw  out  her  arms  shudderingly,  as  if  to 
keep  knowledge  and  sight  at  a  distance,  while  she 
stood  at  bay  with  terrible  realization.  Then  her 
arms  fell,  and  a  gasp  broke  from  her. 

"Where  are  you — oh — where  are  you?"  she 
breathed  into  the  stillness. 

But  the  only  answer  was  the  tapping  on  the 
pane  of  the  dry  blossoms,  like  little  whispers. 

With  a  cry  the  woman  fled  down  the  stairs. 
She  passed  into  the  deserted  living-room,  and 
again  came  that  gesture  of  one  who  brushes  aside 
a  curtain,  as  she  stood  on  the  threshold,  staring 
into  the  dark  and  gloom.  With  piteous,  growing 
terror,  her  gaze  roamed  over  the  place  and 
struggled  to  understand.  But  in  her  mind  she 


372       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

saw  the  open  piano,  the  scattered  music ;  the  couch 
with  its  comfort  of  pillows,  in  what  had  been 
her  own  particular  corner;  the  pictures,  the  books, 
and  all  that  had  made  life  sweet  there.  And  of  it 
all,  nothing  was  left. 

Her  haunted,  hungry  eyes  saw  the  reality 
sharp  against  her  mind's  contrasting  picture. 
Why,  from  all  they  had  held  of  laughter  and  song 
and  friendly  counsel,  and  the  dear  interchange 
of  the  common  currency  of  life,  the  walls  seemed 
thrilling  still!  Yet,  for  music  now,  there  was 
only  the  wail  of  the  wind ;  and  for  furniture,  there 
were  only  the  shadows. 

A  cloud  seemed  to  settle  over  her  mind,  and 
she  swooned  for  a  moment  against  the  wall. 
When  she  recovered,  the  dazed  look  had  passed 
out  of  her  eyes,  but  in  its  place  was  a  blight  of 
despair,  which  crept  down  over  her  body.  Slowly 
she  dragged  herself  about  the  room,  past  her 
familiar  places,  past  the  imagined  piano,  where 
her  hands  went  out  as  if  groping  for  the  keys,  past 
the  spot  where  the  bookcase  had  stood,  and  again, 
like  a  spirit-hand,  hers  touched  nothing.  All  the 
while,  little  moans  and  tendernesses  of  action  and 
articulation  broke  from  her.  Almost  she  felt  her- 
self a  ghost,  in  this  place  of  shadows  where  sub- 
stances had  been.  Finally  she  came  to  the  cold 
hearthstone,  and  sank  down  upon  it  like  a  spent 
wave. 

Kecovering  after  a  little,  she  sat  up,  propping 
herself  with  one  hand  behind  her  on  the  floor. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      373 

Suddenly  she  started.  She  had  encountered  the 
bowl  of  Philip's  pipe,  which  he  had  let  fall,  and 
it  was  still  warm.  She  struggled  to  her  feet,  half- 
terrified,  as  she  realized  that  the  house  was  not 
so  deserted  as  it  seemed,  that  some  one  must 
have  been  there  quite  lately,  perhaps  was  still 
there.  She  carried  the  pipe  over  to  the  window 
and  examined  it.  In  the  waning  light  she  could 
just  make  out,  on  the  silver  ferule,  the  initials 
"P.  C."  She  whispered  "Phil!"  and  turned  to 
the  window,  to  look  for  him  without,  as  she  often 
had  done  before. 

But  he  was  within.  In  the  noise  of  the  wind 
and  the  rain,  she  had  not  heard  him  enter,  had 
not  seen  him  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway,  his  arms 
full  of  firewood,  watching  her  with  fascinated 
eyes.  He  had  not  guessed  her  presence,  either, 
until  she  had  made  the  little  startled  sound  when 
the  pipe  had  burned  her.  Then  his  instinctive 
movement  toward  her  was  somehow  mysteriously 
checked.  She  was  so  unaware  of  him,  as  she 
passed  him  in  the  darkness  and  went  to  look  for 
him  in  the  fading  light. 

Outlined  against  it,  he  could  see  her  plainly, 
himself  unseen.  Her  delicacy,  her  destitution, 
clutched  at  his  heart.  He  saw  that  her  clothing 
was  shabby  and  rain-bedraggled,  her  hair  dishev- 
eled, her  slender  hands  of  extreme  thinness.  He 
guessed  the  look  of  the  eyes  which  he  longed  and 
dreaded  to  see.  When  he  had  first  caught  sight 
of  her  as  he  entered,  he  had  wanted  to  cry  her 


374      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

name,  to  fling  down  his  kindling  wood  and  clasp 
her  to  him.  Some  strange  intuition  had  stopped 
him.  It  controlled  him  now  as  he  began,  silently 
and  swiftly,  to  lay  the  fire. 

Suddenly  she  turned,  divining,  without  seeing, 
another  presence  in  the  room.  He  felt  he  had 
known  that  she  would.  He  longed  to  fold  her  in 
the  warmth  and  safety  of  his  arms,  but  some  di- 
vine instinct  taught  him  on  how  frail  a  thread 
her  spirit  and  her  sanity  hung.  He  put  by  his 
own  aching  need  of  her,  he  denied  himself  his  re- 
covered joy,  he  even  refused  himself  the  priv- 
ilege of  touching  her  to  help  her;  he  let  her  come 
slowly  to  herself,  linking  himself  with  nature  and 
the  merciful  moments  of  time.  And  she  watched 
him  break  up  the  sticks,  humming  a  little  tune 
over  his  homely  task,  in  the  most  ordinary  and 
beautiful  way  in  the  world.  So,  by  sweet  and 
gradual  degrees,  the  wild  question  died  out  of  her 
eyes,  and  they  brimmed  with  tenderness  and 
tears. 

The  blaze  leaped  up,  and  by  its  light  the  man 
and  the  woman  saw  each  other's  faces — and  per- 
haps each  other's  souls — for  the  first  time. 
Speechless,  they  turned  into  each  other's  arms, 
he  lifting  her  bodily  and  holding  her  high  against 
his  heart — at  last. 

Long  they  sat  in  front  of  the  fire  on  the  old 
wooden  settle ;  talking  brokenly  of  all  that  lay  be- 
tween this  time  and  the  last  when  they  had  sat 
there.  Philip  had  gathered  her  into  his  arms,  as 


Long  they  sat  in  front  of  the  fire  on  the  old  wooden 
settle.     Page  374. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       375 

one  does  a  child,  and  she  lay  across  his  lap,  her 
head  on  his  breast,  very  frail  and  spent,  as  he 
saw.  With  a  terror  that  was  new  to  him,  he 
noted  her  light  weight,  the  delicate  hollows  of  her 
cheek  and  neck,  the  way  the  blue  veins  stood  out 
on  her  temples  and  in  her  hands.  Intermittently 
she  told  him  her  story,  with  long  pauses  and 
many  gaps  which  his  imagination  had  to  fill  in  or 
his  experience  interpret.  More  than  once  she 
had  to  stop  to  comfort  him,  it  was  such  pain  to 
him  to  hear  it.  Yet  he  insisted  on  knowing  it 
all. 

She  had  no  knowledge  of,  or  capacity  for,  earn- 
ing her  own  living.  She  had  had  no  training. 
There  were  only  one  or  two  things  which  she  could 
do.  She  tried  first  being  a  sort  of  social  sec- 
retary to  a  lady  to  whom  the  Sisters  recommended 
her.  "It  was  all  very  well  for  a  time,"  Mary 
said,  "but  I  had  to  be  secretary  for  her  husband, 
too,  now  and  then,  and  he  got  in  the  habit  of 
needing  me  more  and  more — so  I  had  to  give  it 
up." 

Philip  remembered  what  Father  John  had  said 
about  the  lady's  attitude  being  so  odd  and  jealous, 
when  he  had  called  to  inquire  for  Mary.  He 
thought  he  understood  the  whole  story. 

"Then  I  tried  to  be  a  working  housekeeper," 
Mary  went  on.  "I  thought  I  knew  enough  for 
that.  But  you've  no  idea,  Phil,  how  difficult  it  is 
to  house-keep  for  somebody  else.  And  one  must 
know  so  much  about  cookery — have  such  a  reper- 


376       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

toire  of  dishes!  Those  that  I  knew,  I  could  do 
well,  of  course,  and  I  worked  hard,  early  and 
late,  and  found  out  many  new  ones;  but  I  couldn't 
stand  the  strain,  and  presently  I  broke  down  and 
had  to  be  sent  to  a  hospital.  When  I  came  out, 
I  was  quite  weak  and  had  no  money.  So  I  became 
a  nurse  to  some  children.  They  were  darlings. 
I  loved  the  children,  but — there  were  complica- 
tions— I  can't  explain — old,  wearisome  complica- 
tions— so  I  left  that  place,  too.  And  then  I  sang 
in  a  church,  until  something  I  said  one  day  led  to 
their  finding  out  who  I  was — and  the  whole  story. 
They  came  to  me  and  asked  me  to  leave.  They 
said  they  didn't  quite  like  the  scandal  to  be  con- 
nected with  their  church,  and  though  they  put  it 
quite  nicely  to  me,  I  could  see  they  felt  the  posi- 
tion was  impossible.  I  was  sorry,  for  though  the 
salary  was  small,  I  felt  I  was  safe.  Then,  for  a 
long  time,  I  had  no  work,  and  I  got  discouraged 
and  ill.  And  after  a  while,  I  began  to  know- 
she  hesitated,  and  her  arm  went  up  to  his  neck, 
and  her  face  turned  toward  his  breast,  as  one 
turns  to  the  wall. 

Philip,  too,  began  to  know.  This  newly  found 
treasure  would  be  his  for  a  short  time  only.  He 
had  a  sensation  as  of  something  breaking  within 
him — as  it  were  the  sack  which  had  held  the 
dreams  and  desires  and  hopes  and  purposes  of  all 
his  years.  They  had  come,  one  and  all,  to  center 
about  the  beloved  life  that  was  flowing  away  in 
his  arms. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       377 

"Phil,  my  dearest,  my  love,  you  mustn't — you 
mustn't!" 

He  gathered  her  close  to  him  and  hid  his  face 
in  her  hair. 

After  an  interval,  they  fell  to  talking  again. 
"It  is  exposure  and  exhaustion  which  has  brought 
you  to  this,"  he  said,  refusing  to  believe  his  own 
intuition,  "but  we'll  change  all  that,  now  that  you 
have  come  home." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  at  him 
very  tenderly  and  gravely.  Then  she  said: 

"I  would  not  have  come  except — to  say — 
good — " 

"No!"  he  cried  sharply,  "don't  say  it,  Mary! 
You  came  because  you  loved  me,  and  because  you 
know  I  would  be  miserable  without  you;  and  you 
are  going  to  stay  for  just  those  two  reasons." 
He  looked  around  him  at  the  desolation  and  added 
stoutly:  "We'll  build  it  up  again,  my  sweet,  bet- 
ter than  before." 

Her  eyes  had  a  mystic  look.    "Yes,"  she  said. 

'  *  I  must  go  and  get  you  some  supper  and  make 
you  comfortable  for  the  night — 

But  she  clung  to  him.  "Don't  go;  don't  go 
even  across  the  threshold.  I  don't  want  anything 
but  you — but  you." 

Presently,  after  another  interval,  there  came  a 
knock  at  the  door  and  old  MacGregor's  voice: 
"I  made  bold  to  bring  your  supper  in,  sir,  seeing 
ye  did  na  come  for  it." 

Philip  looked  questioningly  at  his  wife. 


378      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

She  smiled  and  said :     ' '  Come  in ! " 

"For  the  love  of  God!"  said  the  old  man  in 
the  doorway. 

* '  You  see  now  why  I  did  not  come  to  supper  on 
time,"  said  Philip  and  added  with  a  determined 
gayety:  "It's  always  a  lady  that  makes  a  man 
late  to  his  dinner!" 

They  smiled  at  the  little  jest  with  wet  eyes,  and 
the  heart-breaking  moment  passed.  MacGregor 
said  huskily: 

"I'm  thinking  he'd  miss  it  entirely  for  you, 
ma'am.  Our  hearts  were  sair  to  part  wi'  ye. 
Ye '11  stay  with  us  noo,  awhile.  Do  ye  like  soup? 
Eh,  I  remember  ye  do.  I'll  just  lay  this  oot  on 
this  bit  of  a  box,  sir,  for  a  table,  for  her  ladyship, 
an'  I'll  go  back  for  another  portion  for  you." 

"Thanks,"  said  Philip  simply. 

The  old  man  deftly  spread  a  napkin  over  a  soap- 
box which  he  had  brought  in  with  him,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  lay  upon  the  improvised  table,  soup,  a 
roasted  chicken,  vegetables  smoking  hot,  and 
even  a  salad  and  cheese.  He  surveyed  his  efforts 
with  pardonable  pride,  his  market-basket  on  his 
arm. 

"I'll  come  back  with  the  tea,  sir,  or  perhaps 
ye '11  like  to  make  it,  ma'am?  I'll  bring  the  kettle 
in." 

"You're  very  kind,  MacGregor,"  said  Mary. 

"Huff!"  the  old  man  answered  roughly.  He 
looked  back  from  the  doorway. 

"Why  should  ye  not  take  my  hoose  for  the 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      379 

nicht?  I  could  shake  down  here  better  than  ye, 
and  ye 're  maist  welcome." 

"Oh,  no,  thanks!"  said  Mary  quickly,  then 
added  with  compunction,  "yet  it  would  be  more 
comfortable  for  you,  Philip?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  sensing  her  longing  for 
their  own  home,  poor  as  it  was.  "No,  we'll  do 
very  well  here,  MacGregor,  thank  you.  The  old 
couch  is  comfortable;  there *s  plenty  of  bedding; 
and  I '11  take  the  settle." 

"And  in  the  morning  you'll  bring  us  some 
breakfast,  won't  you,  MacGregor?"  said  Mary. 

"That  I  will,  ma'am.  You're  not  lookin'  over- 
strang.  Ye '11  be  wanting  to  see  the  doctor  in  the 
morning?" 

"Yes,  and  Father  John,  and  perhaps  a  neigh- 
bor or  two.  I'll  tell  you — in  the  morning."  She 
held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "Good  night — and 
thank  you." 

He  shook  it  awkwardly.  "I'm  faire  glad  to  set 
e'en  on  ye  again,  ma'am — faire  glad  to  have  ye 
home." 

They  sat  side  by  side  on  the  settle  and  ate  their 
supper  in  front  of  the  fire,  Philip  watchfully  solic- 
itous for  her,  she  doing  her  best  to  satisfy  his  de- 
mand that  she  should  eat. 

"I  can't  do  very  much,"  she  said  at  last,  "for 
I've  only  been  a  little  while  out  of  the  hospital." 

"Dear,  you  never  told  me  that!  What  was  it 
this  time?" 

"They  called  it  brain-fever,"  she  answered  in- 


380      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

differently.  "They  said  I  'wandered.'  It  was 
only  that  I  kept  having  a  dream  about  you — you 
here,  alone — and  it  seemed  as  if  I  could  help.  So 
I  managed  to  get  away.  Only  I  was  a  long  time 
finding  you.  I  walked  and  walked — and  at  night 
I  stayed  in  railway  stations  until  it  was  time  to 
walk  again — and  finally — "  she  leaned  against  his 
shoulder  weakly,  "oh,  Phil,  you  are  so  strong  and 
big — and  it  is  so  good  to  be  home." 

"It's  just  a  camp,"  he  said  sadly,  looking  about 
him  with  eyes  that  remembered. 

"But  you  are  here,"  she  answered,  as  though 
that  fact  compensated  for  everything. 

He  took  away  the  supper  things  and  made  a  fire 
in  the  kitchen  stove  to  heat  water  for  her.  Then 
he  remembered  her  dressing-gown,  which  Mac- 
Gregor  had  packed  in  his  trunk  more  than  a  year 
and  a  half  before.  He  found  it  without  difficulty, 
and  the  comfort  of  it  seemed  to  refresh  her  al- 
most as  much  as  the  warm  bath.  It  was  a  great 
joy  to  do  every  little  service  for  her,  but  all  the 
while  that  he  fetched  and  carried  there  was  a  cry- 
ing in  his  heart  for  something  yet  undone,  and  a 
strange  feeling  that  his  time  for  doing  it  was 
short. 

When  he  returned  with  more  wood  for  the  fire, 
he  found  her  in  bed  on  the  couch,  which  he  had 
made  comfortable  for  her.  She  looked  very  frail 
and  small.  Yet  she  had  been — there  came  a  gulp 
in  his  throat  as  he  thought  "had  been" — a  little 
over  the  medium  height  of  women.  Now  she 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       381 

seemed  strangely  shrunken  to  the  proportions  of 
a  slender  girl  in  her  teens.  From  between  the 
braided  ropes  of  fair,  brown  hair,  her  face — her 
own  beautiful  and  beloved  face — smiled  up  at  him 
from  the  pillow,  with  the  smile  he  knew.  He 
drank  it  in  for  a  moment,  then  he  put  down  his 
armful  of  wood,  came  over  and  gathered  her  up, 
blanket  and  all,  into  his  arms,  on  the  settle  before 
the  fire. 

For  some  time  they  sat  in  silence  too  profound 
for  words.  There  were  things  Philip  wanted  to 
say,  but  he  did  not  know  how.  He  wondered  how 
expression  had  always  been  so  easy  in  the  old 
days,  when  there  was  so  much  less  to  express! 
Finally,  he  laid  his  hand  gently  over  her  eyes,  that 
she  might  not  see  his  face. 

"Mary,  my  Mary,"  he  said  brokenly,  "there's 
something  I've  wanted  to  say — so  long.  It's  only 
— you  forgive — t" 

She  gave  a  little  cry  and  pulled  his  hand  from 
her  eyes  to  her  lips,  kissing  it  in  the  palm. 

"Don't!"  she  implored.  "Don't  let  there  be 
any  talk  of  forgiveness  between  you  and  me ! 
Weren't  we  both  wrong?  Haven't  we  both  suf- 
fered 7  Don 't  we  both — understand ! ' ' 

And  the  silence  wrapped  them  about  again,  like 
the  wings  of  angels. 


CHAPTER  XIH 

\ 

IN  the  morning  Dr.  Bourke  called.  He  made 
the  usual  professional  examination  during  his 
visit,  but  very  cheerfully  and  casually,  and 
Mary  brightened  under  the  stimulus  of  his  ener- 
getic personality.  Philip 's  eyes  never  left  the 
physician's  face,  and  when  he  arose  to  go,  he  fol- 
lowed him  out  into  the  hall.  He  saw  him  brace 
himself  mentally,  as  one  does  who  has  to  break 
bad  news. 

"You  needn't  bother,"  said  Philip,  answering 
the  doctor's  unspoken  thought.  "For  you  see— 
I  know." 

Dr.  Bourke  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"I'm  glad  you  do,"  he  said  at  last. 

"The  only  thing  I  don't  know  is — will  it  be 
long!" 

"That  I  can't  tell,  no  one  can.  It's  absolute  ex- 
haustion and  starvation.  No,  she  won't  suffer 
much  now.  It  will  probably  be  sudden,  at  the 
end."  He  laid  his  hand  on  Philip's  shoulder  for 
a  moment,  much  moved  himself.  Then  he  went 
away,  and  Philip  returned  to  his  wife. 

A  little  later  Father  John  came.  Each 
stretched  out  welcoming  hands  to  him,  and 
Philip  moved  the  settle  nearer  to  the  couch  where 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       383 

Mary  lay.  The  priest  kept  a  hand  of  each  for 
a  time,  like  a  very  old  and  intimate  friend,  and  it 
made  a  chain  of  feeling  between  them  that  trans- 
mitted unspoken  sympathy.  It  was  Mary  herself 
who  made  the  first  allusion  to  her  illness,  after 
they  had  talked  a  while. 

"Why  should  we  evade  or  conceal  what  is  to 
be?"  she  said  quietly.  "I've  known  for  some 
time — and  Philip  knows,  now — and  I  see  in  your 
face,  Father,  that  you  know,  too.  I  need  you." 

Philip  kissed  the  hand  he  held  and  went  out, 
leaving  her  alone  with  her  confessor. 

When  he  returned  he  found  the  priest  about  to 
depart. 

"Many  people  are  already  asking  for  you," 
Father  John  was  saying.  "Mrs.  Hughes  asked 
me  this  morning  when  I  thought  she  might  call." 

"Why — to-day!"  Mary  answered. 

"Are  you  sure  it  won't  tire  you  too  much?" 
said  Philip  anxiously. 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "Tell  her  to- 
day," she  said  to  the  priest,  with  a  slight  em- 
phasis on  the  last  word.  Philip  heard  it,  and  it 
went  through  his  heart  like  a  sword.  She  might 
almost  as  well  have  said :  1 1  Because  there  may  not 
be  a  to-morrow."  She  added,  to  Father  John: 

"And  you'll  bring  my  communion  in  the  morn- 
ing?" 

"Yes,  my  daughter — early."  He  looked  back 
at  them  with  great  tenderness  as  they  sat  to- 
gether. 


384      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"I'm  thinking  that  you  do  not  need  St.  John's 
commandment,"  he  said  slowly. 

Their  faces  questioned  him. 

"  *  Beloved,  let  us  love  one  another:  for  love  is 
of  God,'  '  he  quoted  and  added:  "Good-by,  my 
children." 

They  sat  very  still  in  the  wonder  of  their  new 
intimacy  which  could  speak  fearlessly  of  sacred 
things  or  leave  them  unspoken  when  the  heart 
heard. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Hughes  called. 
Philip  opened  the  door  for  her  and  left  them 
alone  together. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Carmichael,"  Mrs.  Hughes  said, 
as  she  entered  "I'm  so  sorry  to  hear  you  are  not 
well — oh!"  She  stopped,  appalled  at  the  change 
in  Mary's  face.  "Oh,  my  dear!"  she  faltered, 
"I  didn't  realize  how  ill  you  have  been!" 

Mary,  propped  up  with  pillows,  very  weak  but 
quite  cheerful,  smiled  reassuringly. 

"I'm  ever  so  much  better,"  she  said,  "I  shall 
soon  be  all  right.  It's  so  good  to  be  home." 

Mrs.  Hughes  looked  about  her  at  the  bare  room 
and  looked  back  to  the  bright  face.  Her  amaze- 
ment gave  way  to  emotion,  and  she  suddenly  burst 
into  tears. 

"Why,"  said  Mary,  surprised  in  her  turn, 
"why,  what  is  it?  Tell  me." 

"When  I  think,"  Mrs.  Hughes  sobbed,  "of  all 
you  were — of  all  you  had — of  what  you  came  from 
— to  this!  You  see,  my  dear,  I  know.  I  know 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       385 

all  about  you — who  you  were,  what  your  life  was 
—over  there  in  the  old  country — I  knew  you  made 
the  same  mistake  I  did.  It  drew  me  to  you  from 
the  first.  I  was  so  sorry  for  you.  I  knew  you'd 
regret  it — as  I  did.  Oh,  my  dear,  why  do  we  so 
ruin  our  lives?" 

She  was  actually  sitting  on  the  floor  with  her 
face  hidden  at  the  side  of  the  couch.  Mary  put 
her  hand  on  Mrs.  Hughes'  shoulder. 

"What's  your  Christian  name?"  she  asked. 

"  Helen." 

"Helen,  what  makes  you  think  you  have  made 
a  mistake?  Because  you  have  lost  so  much?" 

"Oh,  yes!  Home,  husband,  children,  position 
— everything ! ' ' 

"Haven't  you  gained  anything  in  exchange?" 

"Nothing  that  balances,  nothing  that  makes 
up." 

"Then  why  don't  you  go  back?" 

"My  children  are  estranged,  my  position  is 
gone,  my  husband — is  recently  dead.  He  was  a 
soldier,  you  know." 

"Did  you  care  for  him?" 

"No — not  like  that.  I  cared  only  for  Captain 
Hughes — that  way. ' ' 

"Then  why  wasn't  it  worth  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  didn't  last.  I  suppose  the 
sacrifice  was  too  great  for  each  of  us. ' ' 

"No,"  said  Mary.  "No,  it  was  not  that  the 
sacrifice  was  too  great,  but  that  the  love  was  not 
great  enough," 


386      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Mrs.  Hughes  met  her  eyes  for  a  moment. 

"Do  you  think  that  was  it!"  she  asked. 

11  Helen,  we  only  learn  by  our  mistakes,  most  of 
us.  Do  you  love  him  still?  Of  course  you  do. 
Don't  be  afraid  of  it.  Don't  be  afraid  of  giving 
too  much  of  it,  or  of  giving  up  too  much  for  it — if 
it  is  right.  Always  that.  But  don't  be  afraid 
of  loving.  Why  should  you!  You  can  only  lose 
the  thing  you  love — not  the  love.  That  lives." 

"You're  wonderful!" 

"Oh,  my  dear — "  for  the  first  time  tears  came 
into  Mary's  voice,  "it's  so  hard  when  you  look 
forward,  but  so  simple,  when  you  look  back!" 

She  felt  the  other's  wet  cheek  on  her  hand. 

"I'm  looking  back,"  she  went  on,  after  a  mo- 
ment. ' '  You  think  I  Ve  lost  everything.  No,  I  've 
gained  everything.  For  things  don't  matter, 
only  love.  Just  think,  we've  found  it,  here  and 
now,  short  of  heaven ! ' '  Her  voice  had  a  sort  of 
awe.  Then  it  changed  again  to  simple,  everyday 
sweetness.  She  drew  Helen  Hughes  to  her  and 
kissed  her. 

"Mind  you  tell  me  that,  too,  when  you  see  me 
again ! ' '  she  said. 

After  Mrs.  Hughes  had  gone,  she  sat  looking 
out  at  the  garden  for  some  time.  The  rain  had 
stopped.  The  face  of  the  world  laughed  back  to 
the  sun.  The  spring  had  come.  Flowers  and 
trees  and  birds  declared  it  in  a  thousand  joy- 
ances.  Philip  came  in  softly  and  found  her  face 
full  of  a  straining  wistfulness. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       387 

"Darling  girl,  what  is  it?" 

"Phil!"  she  cried  sharply,  "Phil,  it  is  so  beau- 
tiful— so  beautiful !  And  I  love  it  so !  Oh,  hold 
me  close — don't  let  me  go.  I  can't  bear  it,  I 
can't!  Every  day  now  will  be  longer — and  love- 
lier— and  all  over  the  world  there  will  be  lovers 
laughing  and  whispering — and  you  and  I — oh,  Be- 
loved— Beloved ! ' ' 

She  lay  against  his  breast,  spent  with  sobbing. 

Then  Philip  Canmchael  astonished  himself. 

"You  and  I,"  he  said,  "will  be  laughing  and 
whispering,  too,  of  the  things  that  last — the 
things  of  God — for  a  man  and  a  woman." 

That  night  she  was  terribly  exhausted.  She 
fought  for  breath,  which  alternately  almost 
ceased  and  then  came  again  in  heavy  moans. 
She  went  from  feverish  excitement  into  sleep  that 
was  like  a  swoon.  Dr.  Bourke,  who  was  with 
them  most  of  the  time,  ministered  to  them,  but 
all  his  skill  and  faithfulness  could  do  nothing 
more  than  hold  at  bay  the  approaching  visitor. 
Finally  he  left  them,  telling  Philip  to  send  for  him 
if  there  were  any  change  in  his  patient. 

"I  think  she  will  sleep  until  morning,"  he  said. 
"But  if  you  need  me,  my  house  is  not  far,  and 
MacGregor  will  come  like  a  shot.  Good  night." 

The  hours  wore  on — one,  two,  three — the  little 
hours  that  so  often  are  the  great  ones.  Philip 
sat  on  the  floor  by  his  wife's  bedside,  holding  her 
unconscious  hand  in  his,  thinking  new,  deep 
thoughts.  His  somber  eyes  stared  into  the  dying 


388       THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

fire  and  saw  the  whole  procession  and  pageant  of 
life,  and  failed  to  find  the  meaning  of  it.  Then 
they  came  back  to  her  face,  and  suddenly  he  saw 
it  writ  large  in  every  line.  The  light  pencilings 
about  the  eyes,  the  deeper  ones  about  the  mouth. 
What  did  they  speak  of  but  the  repression  of  self 
and  the  sweetness  of  service  for  others?  It 
seemed  so  singularly  unrewarded,  since  here  she 
lay,  this  beautiful  and  gifted  woman,  dying,  and 
not  yet  thirty-three  years  of  age !  Yet,  there  was 
no  life  which  hers  had  touched  which  had  not  been 
in  some  way  quickened  or  comforted  in  the  con- 
tact. And  he  saw  that  no  life  could  be  viewed  by 
itself  alone,  but  only  in  its  relationship  to  others, 
beginning  with  God  and  going  on  to  its  fellow- 
men — wherever  its  lot  was  cast. 

He  was  not  surprised,  when  he  looked  up  after 
a  while,  to  find  her  quiet  eyes  upon  him.  They 
had  the  look,  he  thought,  of  one  who  had  come 
back  from  a  far  distance,  just  to  speak  to  him. 
He  had  to  bend  close  to  catch  the  sweet,  faint 
trail  of  tone. 

"I've  been  thinking,  too,"  she  said,  as  if  she 
had  heard  his  thoughts,  and  they  joined  on  to  her 
own.  "What  will  you  do,  dear,  by  and  by?" 

He  answered  after  a  moment : 

"I'll  start  out  on  another  quest  for  you,  my 
Mary,  and,  please  God,  find  you  again  in  the 
end." 

Her  eyes  shone  on  him.  "Oh,  yes,  I'll  be  wait- 
ing! But  meanwhile,  there's  so  much  I  wanted  to 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE      389 

do !  It's  been  taken  from  me.  Will  you  do  it  for 
me,  Philip?  There  are  so  many  children  I 
wanted  to  mother,  and  so  many  sick  and  sad  in 
the  hospitals  and  on  the  streets.  I  meant  to  help 
them  all,  when  I  got  well.  You  see,  one  doesn't 
realize  when  one  is  safe  and  happy  at  home." 

"I  know,"  he  answered.  "I'll  do  anything — 
for  any  one  of  them — that  I  think  you  would  have 
done.  It  will  be  all  I— shall  have  left."  His 
voice  broke. 

"No,"  she  whispered,  "not  all."  She  drew  his 
head  to  her  breast  and  passed  her  hand  gently 
over  his  hair.  "I  have  always  loved  your  name. 
There  was  a  disciple  once,  named  Philip.  It  was 
he  who  said:  'Lord,  show  us  the  Father  and  it 
sufficeth  us.'  Remember?" 

He  nodded. 

"I  always  felt  a  sympathy  with  him  for  want- 
ing to  be  shown!  But  when  one  is  shown — " 

Philip  raised  his  head  and  looked  her  in  the 
eyes.  It  seemed  to  him  that  time  stood  still,  while 
a  mysterious,  long-urged  call  grew  clear  to  him, 
grew  as  clear  as  a  trumpet  and  as  deep  as  that 
"voice  like  the  sound  of  many  waters,"  heard  of 
old.  It  passed  like  a  vision  which  had  caught  him 
away  and  returned  him  to  earth  again  in  time  to 
catch  the  faint  human  whisper : 

"Why  should  there  not  be  another  disciple 
named— Philip?" 

They  spoke  no  more  then. 

Some  time  after  she  moved  wearily.    "I  wish 


390      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

it  were  morning,"  she  said  wistfully.  "Do  you 
think  he  will  come  early?" 

"Yes,  dear,  very  early.    He  said  so." 

He  opened  the  shutters  and  pushed  her  couch 
up  to  the  window.  The  first  glimmer  of  light  was 
coming,  and  the  world  had  that  weird  hush  which 
it  wears  before  the  dawn.  She  lay  watching  the 
day  break  and  feeling  the  wind  blow  freshly  upon 
her,  half -supported  by  her  husband's  arms. 
Neither  of  them  spoke.  They  listened  to  the  stir 
of  the  awakening  earth,  as  if  it  were  the  music  of 
the  spheres. 

When  the  dawn  had  come,  they  heard  the  gar- 
den gate  click,  and  saw  Father  John  approaching. 
They  waved  to  him. 

"The  door  is  unlocked,"  said  Philip,  through 
the  open  window;  "come  in." 

The  priest  entered,  and  shortly  after  they  were 
joined  by  old  MacGregor,  as  it  had  been  agreed 
that  he  was  to  receive  his  communion  with  them. 

Father  John  made  his  simple  preparations  and 
began  his  celebration.  And  solemnly,  powerfully, 
mystically,  the  great  words  of  the  Mass  sank  into 
their  minds  while  the  light  grew  full.  Father 
John  first  received  the  sacrament — then  Mac- 
Gregor— then  Philip,  and  last  of  all,  Mary.  As 
one  in  a  dream  she  heard  in  her  turn,  the  final 
words : 

"The  Blood  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  which 
was  shed  for  thee,  preserve  thy  body  and  soul 
unto  everlasting  life." 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE       391 

A  stillness  came  upon  her  spirit,  a  sense  of  an 
imminent  Presence,  the  knowledge  that  she  had 
received  her  last  Communion  on  earth.  She  heard 
nothing  more  of  the  service  until  the  final  bless- 
ing: 

"The  peace  of  God  which  passeth  all  under- 
standing. ' ' 

Into  that  peace  she  swooned  for  a  few  moments, 
and  came  by  long,  slow  heart-throbs,  to  look  again 
into  the  loving  faces  bending  over  her.  She  tried 
to  smile  and  speak,  but  could  not  for  weakness, 
and  finally  sank  deeper  on  her  pillow,  with  closed 
eyes. 

When  she  opened  them  again,  after  an  hour  or 
more,  only  Philip  was  with  her.  He  raised  her 
in  his  arms  with  infinite  gentleness.  And  sud- 
denly her  voice  came  quite  clear  and  sweet. 

"Phil,  dear,  do  you  remember  reading  once 
with  me :  'If  a  man  would  give  all  the  substance 
of  his  house  for  love,  it  would  utterly  be  con- 
temned!' " 

"Yes." 

"All  the  substance  of  his  house!  Philip,  we 
have  given  it  all — down  to  the  clothes  you  wear, 
and  the  bed  I  lie  on.  All  the  substance,  life  itself ! 
What  does  it  matter?  No  wonder  it  would  be 
'utterly  contemned.'  It  is  all  too  little  to  give — 
for  what  we  have  found — " 

She  fell  back  in  his  arms. 

"Love!"  he  cried  to  her  in  his  fear.  "Love 
— my  love ! ' ' 


392      THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

She  revived — raised  herself — looked  far  past 
him  as  if  at  Divinity. 
"Love!"  she  said  with  her  last  breath. 

So  naturally  it  came  that  for  a  few  moments 
he  held  her  in  his  arms,  not  knowing.  Then  the 
absolute  stillness  smote  him.  He  listened  for  her 
breath — her  heart-beat — and  there  was  neither. 
For  a  moment  his  own  stood  still.  Then  he  ten- 
derly laid  her  down,  looked  his  long  last  into  the 
blue  of  her  eyes,  before  he  closed  them  forever, 
and  fell  on  his  knees. 

When  he  looked  up,  he  saw  that  already  there 
had  settled  over  her  face  a  luminous  peace,  hint- 
ing of  ineffable  promise. 


THE  END 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LBRABY 


A     000128087     4 


